The Big Kid Table [The Darling Files 003]

It’s been a few months since I’ve waken a Darling from its slumber. This was written as part of a Freewrite Workshop with Exhale Creativity and Sonya Spillmann. It’s been asleep since for over a year, but with my kids growing more and more independent of me, it felt like an appropriate time to bring it out.

We went to a cookout at our neighbor’s house, where I sat in a chair, drinking my margarita-from-a-can, and talked to people I mostly didn’t know about nothing in particular. I usually hate small talk, but after a year of isolation, it felt good to sit in the presence of other people. 

A toddler ran to where my daughters and two friends were playing with five huge wooden dice. A tiny chubby hand grabbed the die out of the bright green grass like it was a toy block. The older girls screamed a chorus of “No! We need that!” and the toddler’s mom came running to save the day. My oldest, queen of compromise, offered the tot an extra die. “Here, have this one,” she said, in an attempt to make the babe smile. 

On the other side of the yard was a three-year-old boy, chasing balls and running full speed ahead. His mom stood on the edge of the patio, eyes on him like a hawk, ready to swoop down and grab him when he fell and scraped his knee. I relaxed in my chair, rocking back and forth, remembering the days of diapers and endless supervision. There isn’t a day that goes by that I miss those crazy days of babyhood.

“I rolled three twos and two fives. What can I do with that?” my daughter asked. I came out of my remembering and shifted my thoughts to back to the game. 

“Did you take your twos?” I ask.

“Yes, and my full house.”

I tell her I’d take my three of a kind and remind her to add up the total of all five dice for her score. This stage of life feels empty sometimes. Without the constant chasing of tiny feet I’m left to mostly sit back and watch. I’ve given them roots and now it’s time for their wings to grow.

And perhaps it’s time for me to find wings of my own. 

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This is the third post in The Darling Files, a project initiated by my friends Rachel Nevergall and Callie Feyen. You can read more about The Darling Files from Rachel here and from Callie here.

You can read more of The Darling Files here.

Ten Best Things About 2022

Last year, I claimed DEEP as my word of intention for 2022. While the year was true to that word in a lot of ways, if I had to sum up 2022 in one word, it would be TRANSITION. We tackled several different transitions this year: getting a pet, exploring school options, embracing my call to write, just to name a few. Of course, those are the transitions we chose—the world threw us several others to tackle as well. Here’s a look at what I think are the ten best things about 2022.

1—Bringing Home the Puppy

The puppy was the hardest transition of our year. There were times when I thought bringing home a puppy was the biggest mistake we had ever made. There was even a moment when I wasn’t sure my marriage would survive the puppy. I had no idea raising a puppy would be harder than raising a child, but in so many ways it is. That being said, once D found the right training program for this little stuffed animal of ours, we turned a new corner. Leonardo ‘dawg Vinci Rowe is the very best thing that has happened to our little family of four.

2—The World Mostly Went Back to Normal

2022 began with retreats being cancelled, masks still required, and all of us wondering if life would ever return to the way it once was. But, by August, the four of us had all had Covid, we left home without masks, and we had calendars that were more full than we knew how to handle. David has even gone back to the office—on the train—several times a month. For better or worse, the world is back in full force. It’s been hard at times, but it also feels really good to be in person for meetings, go to yoga twice a week, occasionally eat out at restaurants, and not worry about whether or not I have a mask in the car before I walk out the front door.

3—Reaffirming Our Commitment to Homeschool

In April of last year, we thought the girls would be attending a hybrid school beginning in the Fall. Just a few weeks before classes were to begin, the school closed. We were heartbroken. And shellshocked. All of the hours I spent researching options seemed like nothing but a waste of time. I pivoted and replanned our school year, and it’s been a fantastic experience for all of us. We’ve found a few ways for the girls to regularly connect with other kids and teachers outside the home, they’ve gotten over their desire to “go to school”, and I realized it is possible to balance homeschooling and writing at the same time.

4—The Kids Went to Camp Gramma

Until 2022, my kids have never slept away from home without me. This summer, they stayed an entire week with my parents. One kid was even sick the whole time she was there. They had a blast anyway, they had endless playdates with cousins, they kayaked in the local lake, and learned that Gramma and Grandpa are even cooler than Mom and Dad. We’re hoping to make it an annual event.

5—I Claimed My Calling as Writer

Twelve years ago, I dreamed of this day. So many great things happened for my writing life in 2022. I took three overnight trips alone, where I had a chance to sleep in, breathe deep, and think deep thoughts without getting interrupted. I started getting paid to write, from two external publications and also through Substack. I began the early stages of writing a book. Those early stages have looked like a ton of drafting, reading old material, typing old journals, and a lot of random musings. It took me all year, but I think I finally have a good idea about the narrative direction I want to take. But perhaps most importantly, 2023 was the year I actually called myself a Writer on all those forms you have to fill out asking what your occupation is. There’s no going back now.

6—My Breast Exams Came Back Clear

After some weird discharge out of my right breast, I saw a breast specialist this year. After a mammogram, several exams, and even an MRI, I received confirmation that there’s nothing to be concerned about. My doctors have been incredible at taking me seriously and listening to my fears. Because of my family history with breast cancer, I’ve been moved to the “higher-risk” category so they can keep a closer eye on me. Early prevention is key, and I’m so grateful to have an excellent team of doctors in my court.

7—My Book Club

I’ve written about my book club before. 2023 was the first year since 2019 that we met without interruption. It is the very best part of every single month. They challenge me to read books I wouldn’t otherwise read. They open my mind to perspectives I wouldn’t otherwise have. We share food together. We drink wine, cocktails, and tea together. And through conversation about books and life in general, we share life together. Everyone needs a book club like mine.

8—I Began Tracking my Menstrual Cycle

This may be the single most life-changing thing that happened last year. Well, next to the dog. Since coming off of birth control after the birth of my second child, I have tried to get better in tune with my body. I’ve been reading about creativity and the menstrual cycle for several years now, so when I discovered Nicole Gulotta’s Writing Cycle e-course, I eagerly jumped all in. By paying attention to the time of month, I learned how my energy shifts and changes throughout the month. When I take the time to plan at the beginning of my cycle, and give myself the grace to go where the energy is, I feel less scattered and more creative as the month goes on.

9—I Ran a 5K!

Last year, I shared a little about how I wanted to be a runner. I continued my training, at what felt like a snail’s pace throughout the winter. When I learned my mom would be visiting in June, I asked if she wanted to run a 5K with me. When she said yes, I knew I was locked in and couldn’t get out of it. She was in far better shape than I, but she pushed me to do it. She ran beside me every step of the way. When my calf felt like it was locking up, she slowed down with me and walked a bit. And when we crossed over that finish line, I felt like I could tackle anything. I injured my calf during that run, and haven’t gotten back out on the trail ever since, but I will forever remember the day I ran a 5K with my mom as being one of the very best days of my life.

10—I Didn’t Give Up

In the 42 years that I’ve lived on this earth, discipline has always been my weakness. When things got hard or frustrating, I tended to walk away and started something new instead. 2022 taught me that while sometimes walking away is the best thing we can do, often we need to dig our heels in and keep on keeping on. Even when it feels harder than we can bear. Through schedule changes, injured body parts, more sickness than we’ve had in many years, too many rejections to count, and edits that brought me to tears, I didn’t give up. I kept running. I kept writing. I kept homeschooling. I called doctors. I argued for better care. I called on people to help when I needed it. I demanded time for myself. I dug my heels in.

Where We're Reading This Month

I had so much fun with last month’s photo essay on where we’re reading that I thought I’d do it again this month. Here’s a glimpse at where (and what) we’ve been reading lately.

Towards the end of August, we said farewell to all of our visitors. While very sad to see them go back home to Georgia, I did enjoy the return of routine and quiet in the house. I made a cup of coffee, frothed some milk, and sat down to finish This is How It Always Is for my book club.

Early in the month we took a trip to Concord, my favorite town in all of Massachusetts, and found this adorable little used bookstore, where we read about castles and whatever other books we felt like picking up off the shelf.

We started our new homeschool year right around the same time the weather started cooling off, so we’re doing a lot of reading and narrating on the back porch. The Courage of Sarah Noble is the first Literature book for my third grader. Sometimes I’ll read it aloud to her and listen to her narration, other times she’ll listen to the audiobook and narrate to her iPad.

We’re also doing a lot of reading on the couch of the spare bedroom we’ve designated as the “School Room.” The fifth grader and I are reading The Witch of Blackbird Pond for American History and are learning so much about New England culture in the process. She prefers to narrate upside down.

Every morning, they wake up and eat a bowl of cereal while they read. One has just about finished the Wings of Fire series and the other is in the middle of reading every Betsy & Tacy book she can find.

When Queen Elizabeth died, I was ashamed of just how little I know about the British Monarchy. I searched my shelves for books I own that might help me understand how the monarchy came to be and made quite a large stack of books I’d like to read sooner rather than later. I’m starting with London by Edward Rutherfurd.

Leo (and Autumn) really love reading Our Island Story and learning about the history of King Charles I. Sadly, most everything I know about British History I’ve learned through teaching my kids.

With September comes the start of fall activities, which means we’re spending a lot of time in the car. While my oldest is in a dance lesson, the youngest and I read about Benjamin Franklin.

Then she did her math lesson while I read I Will Always Write Back: How One Letter Changed Two Lives. I can’t remember where I first heard about this book, but it’s quite a delightful read.

I was elated to discover the local library stays open until 8pm two days a week, which means I can hang out and read until time to pick up the youngest at gymnastics.

One night, when feeling particularly overwhelmed with the busy state of our family calendar, I ignored all the to-dos on my list and took The Long Devotion to the beach. I’ve been reading this very slowly since April. I kept putting it down because it hit too close to home and stirred up too many emotions I just didn’t want to handle. But I made it my priority this month to finish it. And it met me right where I was, in all of my confusion and despair and wonder if I could really mother and homeschool and write all at the same time. Mama writers, I highly recommend. 

D has had to go to the office several times this month, so we’re doing a lot of reading on the living room couch while the puppy naps by the fireplace. We finished The Magician’s Nephew this week, while one kid crocheted and the other worked on a paper castle.

Sometimes homeschool life is really hard, but sometimes it’s glorious. Like those days when it’s nearly perfect weather, so you pack your books and head to the local castle by the beach for a picnic lunch while quietly reading I Will Always Write Back, Betsy-Tacy, and Heaven to Betsy.

Fall weather has blown in and I am loving wearing yoga pants and cozy sweatshirts while reading The Moor’s Account.

Tell me friends … Where — and what — are you reading this month?

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All the Permission I Need

It’s Sunday morning. Father’s Day. My oldest has a dance recital at 3pm and I have the day planned out. She has to arrive at noon, with makeup and hair complete. At 9:30am, my Mom (who’s visiting from Georgia), my daughter, and I head to the local bookstore to grab a gift for her dance teachers. I know what I want, I just haven’t had time to shop this last week. I made homemade loose leaf tea, with dried strawberry tops, rose petals, tulsi basil, and mint and I want to include a tea strainer, a candle and a small bar of chocolate. After their busy year of teaching, the gift I most want to give is that of relaxation.

When I arrive home at 10:00, I find my youngest lying on the couch in front of the TV. Daniel Tiger is meeting Baby Margaret for the very first time. At almost eight-years-old, she only watches Daniel Tiger when she doesn’t feel well, so I know something’s up. “Are you okay?” I walk into the sunroom and feel her forehead. She doesn’t have a temperature, but I can tell from her eyes something is wrong.

“My ear hurts. Really bad,” she says, pushing tears away with her tiny fingers.

“On a scale of 1-10, how bad?” I ask. She raises her two hands and shows me eight fingers. This is my kid with high pain tolerance, so if she’s saying eight I know it must be bad. “I’ll call the doctor,” I say, grateful that our pediatrician has weekend hours. “Maybe they can see you before they close at noon.”

The nurse tells me they have an opening at 11:00.  I glance at the clock. It’s 10:20 now. One hour to get her sister ready and feed her lunch before we leave to get to the theater on time. “Can Daddy take you to the doctor?” She shakes her head no.  Sobs start heaving from her chest. “Okay,” I say gently, before calling to her sister in the other room. “Let’s do your hair and makeup real fast; I need to take your sister to the doctor.”

I race up the stairs with her trailing close behind. She wets her hair in the shower. I hastily grab her hair and makeup supplies. When I start brushing her hair, she says, “Don’t rush, Mama!” reminding me that trying to make a perfect bun in a rush never turns out well.  I take a deep breath and try to slow my spinning mind. I finish her bun and check the time. 10:45. It takes 5 minutes to get to the doctor’s office.

“I can start your makeup, but can Gramma do your eyes?” I’m grateful my Mom is here today; happy to let her take on some responsibilities. I rub foundation into her ivory cheeks and notice huge crocodile tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

“Can’t Daddy take her?” she quietly asks. Hair and makeup has become a sacred ritual between us on dance performance days. She’s promised she’ll always let me help her, no matter how old she gets. I’m heartbroken to be pulled in two today.

“Would you want Daddy to take you to the doctor if you didn’t feel well?” Doing my best to keep my voice steady, I put my finger under her chin and tilt her head up to look her in the eye.

“No,” she says. “I guess not.”

“If I take her now, I should be home in no time. Don’t cry, or your makeup will run.” My stomach churns. She’s always anxious before performances. I want her to feel confident today, not disappointed or sad. Catching sight of the time—10:52—I stay positive. “Let’s see how much I can do before I have to leave.” Trying to stay calm, I apply blush and begin the work on her smokey eye. At 10:55, I tell her to let Gramma do her mascara, ask my mom to help pack her bag, and rush her sister out the door.

The doctor sees us as soon as we arrive. After a quick glance in both ears, she diagnoses a double ear infection and calls a prescription in. “Her sister has a dance recital today,” I say; “Is she okay to attend?” The doctor nods, informs us it’s not contagious, and sends us on our way.

Walking to the car from the doctor’s office, I text my husband. “Feed her lunch. I’ll be home in five minutes to finish her makeup.” When I get home, I apply a final coat of mascara and spray another round of hairspray. My mom did a fantastic job, but I can’t help but want to put on the final touches. I drop her at the theater. Then send my husband to pick up the prescription while I fix myself lunch. 

An hour after the recital begins, I notice my youngest holding her ears. “The music is too loud,” she says; “it hurts my ears.” Looking at my watch, I realize the ibuprofen I gave her earlier has just worn off. Of course I didn’t bring any with me. I ask her if she wants to slip outside for a bit, but she shakes her head no. She loves watching her sister dance and doesn’t want to miss a beat.

We make it to intermission before she breaks down into tears. “I just want to go home,” she cries. We’ve come to the car to get away from the sound. There’s probably just over an hour left in the recital, but she can’t bear to stay any longer. 

“I can take you home, but I have to come back to pick them up.” I wipe tears from her eyes and tell her I’m sorry she feels bad. “Is that okay?” She nods her head and buckles her seatbelt. Grateful that we only live twelve minutes away, I text my husband to tell him I’ve left my purse in the theater and I’ll be back to pick them up. 

“Okay; be safe. Make her a snack.” I drive home, careful to obey the speed limit. Once we arrive, I have her put on pajamas while I prepare another dose of medicine. I give her a bowl of canned peaches and a sleeve of saltines, and help her snuggle under a blanket on the couch. 

“Can I watch Doc McStuffins?” she asks. 

“Sure. Daddy just texted there are only four dances left. We’ll be home in less than an hour.” I tell her to message me on her iPad if she needs anything, kiss her forehead, and race out the door. Devastated that I missed my oldest’s final dance, I get back to the theater just in time to catch the curtain call.

Three days later, I’m sitting at the table with my husband eating lunch. We just dropped my mom off at the airport and I’m making a list of what needs to be done before we leave for vacation in two days. “One kid wants me to take her to the craft store. I have three writing deadlines to meet. Both girls have haircuts, one has gymnastics, and my book club meets tomorrow night.” I spit it all out with barely a breath in between.

 “You love book club!” He looks at me and smiles. 

 “I do, but I feel like there are too many demands on my time.” I take a few bites of my salad, thrown together with leftovers from last night. “Sunday about killed me. I am exhausted. So much happened. Everyone needed me. Now my Mom has gone back to Georgia. The to-do list is a mile long. I’m sad. I haven’t written in days. I’ve been going through the motions and haven’t stopped to allow myself to feel.”

 He looks at me with crystalline eyes, unsure of what to say. In his silence, I continue. “If I got paid for my writing work, I would go in my office, shut the door, and meet my deadlines, right?” He nods his head. It is all the permission I need to leave dirty dishes all over the counter, send the kids outside and the puppy downstairs, make a cup of iced coffee and seclude myself for the afternoon.

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Like what you see here? Sign up for My Favorite Things. Each month I compile all my favorite things—articles, recipes, links to read, and sometimes even a playlist—and send them straight to your inbox. This month’s newsletter hit inboxes this morning and features a special guest essay all about recipes and motherhood!

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Permission Slip".

Love is An Exercise Ball

This poem is dedicated to all you mamas out there with babies that won’t sleep. Ever. Unless they are on top of you in some way.

Solidarity, Mama. You are the embodiment of love.

Like a silent metronome I bounce
up and down
up and down
monotonous movement a lullaby

She naps on my chest
breathing in
breathing out
my heart the beat of a drum

Fluctuation brings a finale
to solitude and silence
a screeching wail
a cymbal crash

In the quiet afternoon
with every bob
every breath
my soul swells with tenderness

Love is an exercise ball

Written as part of Like Langston & Emily: A Poetry Workshop with Callie Feyen and Exhale Creativity.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Love Looks Like”.

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When the Mess is Gone

My kitchen counters are covered with books, important papers, Christmas curriculum, and boxes of tea that haven’t been put in the pantry since we filled our cups this morning. Dishes from last night’s dinner sit in the dish drainer, waiting for someone to put them away. Sheet music covers our dining room table, where the girls have been working on their piano theory assignments. Snow pants and boots line the entryway.

There is clutter everywhere.

Lego Advent calendars, plastic animal figurines, and food made out of air dry clay line the floor by the fireplace. The girls take early morning trips to Imagination Village; these items their supplies. Our homeschool room floor is a rainbow collage of pipe cleaners, unrolled balls of yarn, crayons, scraps of paper, and more—evidence of Christmas-present making for the cousins. Books are spread out like a carpet in every room of the house, waiting to be read. 

I’m sitting in the middle of the living room floor sorting through picture books, trying to decide which books to keep and which to put in the Little Free Library at the end of our driveway. Keep. Give away. Keep. Give away. Give away. Keep. Keep. Keep.

Ping. My phone dings from the coffee table and I stand up to see who is messaging me, grateful for the interruption; for an excuse to do anything but clean. 

I think about the boxes of presents hidden in my closet waiting to be wrapped, the few presents still waiting to be finished, the empty suitcases that need to be packed. I look around at the piles of clutter everywhere and feel my eyes start to water. I want to appreciate the creativity of my children—the learning happening right before my eyes—but the clutter drives me bonkers. My heart starts to race. I wonder if I’ll find time to clear the clutter before we leave next week, or if we’ll come home to all the same clutter in the new year.

I remember the last time I stepped into my mom’s house: December 2019. Two years ago. Right before Covid changed the world. It was like walking into a magazine spread. A Christmas tree sat in the corner of the room, perfectly decorated; not an ornament out of place. The large dining room table was clear of everything except an evergreen centerpiece and Christmas-themed placemats. The kitchen counters were spotless, making me wonder if any cooking happens in Mom’s kitchen when we’re not here. There wasn’t a toy in sight—except for my stepdad’s train table—but that’s more decoration than toy. And not a piece of it was out of place. 

Not a thing in the entire house was out of place. It looked nothing like my house does today.

We haven’t seen Mom since last November, so this Christmas feels a little extra special for her. For all of us really, but I’m so caught up in the messes all over my house that I forget for a moment what the mess means.

I am here, in Massachusetts, with a messy home. My mom, in Georgia, with a neat one. I’m looking forward to walking into a house where no toys are strewn about. And she’s looking forward to her house being destroyed.

I think about how quiet my mom’s house must be on any normal day. I relish my own quiet moments alone, but would it feel like the same luxury if it happened all the time? I imagine I would start to feel lonely. It’s possible the silence might even feel deafening after a while.

My racing heart starts to slow down and the tears start to fall. These messes all over my house are proof that my kids are fully in the Christmas spirit of gift-giving and imagination-making. And all I can think about is cleaning up the mess. I am so distracted by the messes they are making that I haven’t even stopped to consider that maybe the mess is a gift. 

The mess is where the memories are made. Messes are where imaginations soar; where stories are created; where life is lived.  

She offers an invitation. A promise. With these seven words, she says so much.

Soon you’ll be here, with me, and the mess won’t matter. Soon we’ll be together. We’ll make messes and memories at the same time. We’ll laugh. We’ll probably cry. We’ll make meals and Christmas cookies and bread. We’ll sew, and use the embroidery machine and wrap presents and do all the things that make huge giant messes. And life will feel so full.

For two weeks. Then we’ll leave to return to Massachusetts and her house will be clean and quiet and empty. And I imagine she’ll long for the mess to return.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Contrast”.

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Peeing Alone

Gentle waves lap on the smooth sand, composing a soft lullaby on the shore. It’s a few hours after low tide. I’m lounging in my new backpack beach chair reading a book; the sand warm and dry under my toes. Seagulls squawk on nearby rocks, fighting over crumbs of food left behind. I look up from my book to see my daughters deep in imagination land, participating in cooking classes they’ve designed especially for the beach. With rusty pots and pans full of sand carefully imprinted with various shell patterns, I think they are learning how to bake sand cakes—or maybe cookies—I really don’t know for sure.

I am hesitant to interrupt this imaginary world they’ve created, but I really need to pee, and I really don’t want to do it in the ocean. The time on my phone says it’s been an hour or two since lunch, so it’s probably a good time for a bathroom break anyhow. I rise from my beach chair, put my book on the seat, and take a few steps closer to where they are.

“Hey,” I say, and they raise their heads to look at me. “What are ya’ll working on?” 

“We’re making sand cakes,” Eden says, before looking back to the creation in her lap. 

“I need to go to the bathroom. Can you find your shoes so we can walk that way?” Autumn, her hands covered with dark, wet sand, looks up at me with her big hazel eyes and says, “I don’t really need to go. Can we just stay here?” 

“Yeah, can we?” Eden joins in.

I feel my heart speed up. They’ve never asked to stay on the beach alone before, and I’m not really sure how to answer. I dig my toes into the sand, trying to process the gazillion thoughts running through my mind. On the one hand, the beach isn’t crowded today. There are only a handful of other families here; it’s not likely that my kids will be abducted while I walk to the bathroom. Their “cooking school” isn’t situated near the water; they are happily baking sand pastries on the hot rocks and there’s not much risk of drowning in the half-inch tide pool nearby. The bathroom is close—I can go and be back in ten minutes or less. 

On the other hand, these are my babies! Can I really leave them alone on the beach?!

I remind myself they aren’t really babies anymore—they are seven and nine. Is it finally time to give them a little more independence? Could it really be true that after nine years of parenting I can finally go to the bathroom all alone?

“Let me think about it for a minute.” I walk back to my chair and grab my phone out of its side pocket. Starting to feel mixed emotions of fear and exhilaration at the prospect of going to the bathroom alone, I text David to get his opinion. “As long as they don’t go in the water,” he texts back; “it’s probably fine.” 

I take a few moments to pull our chairs and blankets a few feet back from where we’ve been sitting. The tide is coming in slowly, but there’s no real threat that it will come up this far in the time it takes for me to pee. I’m really just doing this to prolong the decision I have to make. The blanket makes a swooshing sound along the sand, leaving a visible trail as I yank it from one spot to another just five feet away. I pick up my flip-flops and call Autumn over to where I’ve moved our gear. “I’m going to let you stay here while I go to the bathroom. Don’t get in the water. I’ll leave my phone with you. If anything weird happens, text Daddy. You know how to unlock the phone, right?”

Nodding her head, she tells me she knows the password and I chuckle. Of course she knows the password, I think, somehow kids always know how to figure them out. There’s a gleam of pride in her eyes; she’s always been wiser than her young years might suggest. I can tell she knows this is a big step for me, and I imagine she feels a little excitement at this new sense of responsibility I’ve just given her.

I walk over to Eden and tell her the same thing, emphasizing the part about not going in the water. She is my water-loving kid and the chilly New England water temperatures don’t keep her from running in. She’s typically respectful of my boundaries and has never given me a reason to believe she would jump in the water without me. I think I can trust her to stay put while I’m gone.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell them, and I walk away.

My heart feels like it might jump out of my chest as I walk towards the boardwalk. Every few steps, I turn to look back at them playing in the sand. They look so tiny on the beach, I think to myself, and I begin to pick up my pace.

I think about life just a few years ago; when they were two and four. The scene was similar; we were in our backyard instead of at the beach, and it was mud pies they were making instead of sand cakes. I told them I was going inside for a glass of water and you would have thought I told them I was leaving forever. “Wait Mama!” they would say; “I want to go! I don’t want to be out here alone!” 

Now here they are, five years later, asking to be left on the beach while I walk to the bathroom out of their sight. 

Hastily continuing towards the boardwalk, my feet swish through the crystalline sand; I pass two older women reading books in their chairs and my heart races. Will they notice I left my kids alone on the beach? Will they call the cops and report two children have been abandoned? Will they judge me? Or did they do the same thing once upon a time?

I know these are crazy thoughts. No one on this beach cares about me. They are enjoying their own solitude and peace. My racing heart is invisible to them. I’m not neglecting my children; I’m just going to the bathroom. Right?

I make it there in record time and say a brief prayer of gratitude that there’s no line. This feels silly because the beach is practically empty; the bathroom isn’t getting a lot of use today. I squat over the compost toilet; hear my pee trickle into the dark abyss. I wonder if my kids are okay. Has anyone noticed them alone on the beach? Will there be a lifeguard waiting for me when I get back?

After my bladder is relieved, I pull up my bikini bottoms and leave the stall. I contemplate leaving without washing my hands but we are still living in a pandemic. Besides, Ewww that’s gross. So I make bubbles vigorously and quickly—there’s no counting to twenty or singing the ABCs—shake my hands dry as I walk out the door. 

I swing my empty arms, wishing I had my phone so I knew how long I’ve been gone. Or maybe I would document this moment in time with a selfie to show up in my memories later—The first time I went to the bathroom all alone. I briefly consider having a conversation with David about getting the girls their own phone for times such as this—and then I shake that thought away. It’s only been a few minutes. I’m sure they are fine.

I trot over the sand-strewn boardwalk, slowing my pace when I get back on the sand. The last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself. I nonchalantly walk past the women sitting in their chairs; I’m relieved to see they are still heavily engrossed in their books. I scan the horizon for my girls, but can’t quite make out whether or not they are in the same place. Nervous nausea begins to creep into the pit of my stomach, but after a few more steps, I see they are right where I left them. Still making sand cakes. Safe and sound.

I breathe a sigh of relief and plop myself down in my chair. My feet slide through the sand as I stretch out my legs and glance over to where my daughters play. I think we have just crossed over into big kid land, and I’m not really sure how I feel about that. 

Is this what it will feel like to pee alone for the rest of my life?

---

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Novel".

Like what you see here? Sign up for my Monthly Newsletter. Each month I collect all my favorite things from the month and send them straight to your inbox. This month’s newsletter will hit your inbox next week!

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The Mayonnaise Cake

I rarely go to the grocery store but I have a hankering for Deb Perelman’s Pork Tenderloin Agroldoce. It uses acorn squash, which I have an abundance of, and is the perfect Fall Dinner. I walk through the meat aisle to pick out a pork tenderloin and take a detour down the baking aisle to grab a Duncan Hines cake mix. My birthday is in a week and I want to save my family the hassle of finding the perfect cake recipe. (That’s a lie. I’m a cake snob. There are so many bad recipes on the internet. I fear what they might choose.)

I return home from my errand and shake the brown paper bag in my hand. It crinkles with excitement as I pull out the box and proudly hold it up for David to see. “What’s that for?” he asks. “My birthday!” I reply. “Now you don’t have to find a recipe!” He looks at me with a sinister smile on his face. “Eden has something she wants to show you.” 

I walk through the house. “Eeeeeeden,” I yell. “Do you have something to show me?” 

“Yes!” She says, scampering through the sunroom. I follow her to the homeschool room where she’s made a picture using tangrams and wants me to rate it using a checkmark system. Gazing at me with her huge blue eyes, she points to her paper. “Do you like it?” I tell her I do; she points to a line of empty squares is drawn on a piece of paper next to her art. “How much? You can mark it three times.” I give her three checkmarks. Satisfied (and clueless I’m thinking about my birthday cake), she prances out of the room.  

“I bought a cake mix,” I call after her, “so you can make my cake.” David overhears and looks at me questioningly. It’s obvious her math assignment is not what he had in mind when he said she had something to show me. Eden picks up her cookbook. ”We don’t need it! We found a recipe!” She opens the page to show me a Chocolate Sheet Cake sprinkled with powdered sugar and my heart sinks. I want a layer cake, but they don’t know that. When they asked what kind of cake I wanted, I told them chocolate. With chocolate icing.

I stand silent for a moment, thinking about how to tell her this cake isn’t what I want when she interrupts my thoughts: “But we are going to make icing instead of powdered sugar!” I give her a huge smile. She has clearly thought about her recipe selection and cake baking, so a sheet cake I will eat.

I scan the ingredients and see “mayonnaise” in the list. “You know this has mayonnaise in it?” I ask, with an incredulous voice. David looks at me from the sink where he’s cleaning dishes from lunch. “What?!” He throws a spatula down in disgust. Soapy water splashes from the sink. “Ewww, really?” Eden points to the quotes on the page from kid testers and reads them out loud. I really liked the cake! I hate mayonnaise, but I loved this mayonnaise cake! and I thought it was the best cake I’ve ever had in my life. My finger moves down the page and lands on a large heading at the bottom of the page. 

Mayonnaise in a Cake?

We read about the science behind mayonnaise in a cake. Most cake recipes have oil and eggs in them. That’s really all mayonnaise is, with a little lemon juice and a few seasonings. “Mayonnaise is the trick to making this cake super moist and delicious,” I read out loud. I guess we should trust America’s Test Kitchen—they know more about kitchen science than I. 

I’m still not certain this mayonnaise cake will be any good. It’s taken me more than ten years to find the perfect cake recipe and it’s not a recipe I want them to try; but, I take pride in empowering them, so I’ll consider this a lesson in experimentation. “Let’s try it!” I muster excitement in my voice, taking comfort in knowing if it isn’t any good, Duncan Hines will come to the rescue. “Science in the kitchen,” I say, “but you’ll have to buy mayonnaise because we don’t have any.”

The day before my birthday, David and Eden head to the grocery store with a small list. Red wine vinegar (for the pork agrodolce I still haven’t made), hummus (for my birthday dinner), heavy whipping cream (for the frosting), and mayonnaise (for the cake). They come back with the smallest jar of mayonnaise I’ve ever seen. “We picked the best one!” Eden proudly says, when she pulls it out of the paper bag. “It’s organic!” “I’m sure it will be delicious!” I nod my head, keeping my real thoughts to myself: they probably should have bought Hellmann’s for something like this. 

“I’m going outside,” I say, grabbing my book. It’s sunny out—a beautiful 68 degrees—and I don’t want to be in the kitchen when they are. The truth is, I wanted to make my cake. The kitchen is my happy place. It’s where I can create something beautiful (most of the time) and delicious (also most of the time). The kitchen is where I go when I need to stop my brain from spinning in circles over the many things I need to do. In the kitchen, I pull out a list of ingredients, follow instructions, and end up with something to show for my time and energy. Sure, there are times when I have kitchen fails, but the act of creating in the kitchen brings peace to my soul. But my family is unwavering. They want to pamper me. So here I am, outside, while they take over my kitchen and bake.

Fifteen minutes pass. I start to sweat in my long sleeves and scarf. I walk inside to change my clothes and see Autumn sitting at the counter. It’s clear Eden is doing all the work. I can’t help but sneak a peek at what’s happening inside my sacred space. Two round pans lie on the counter, with parchment paper circles nestled perfectly inside. I look at the recipe to see if there’s going to be enough batter to fill two pans. “So…” I say, trying to figure out how to break the news gently; “this recipe is for an 8-inch square pan. Those are 8-inch round pans. Did you double the recipe?” 

Eden looks at David. David looks at me. “Um, no?” My brain quickly turns to problem-solving mode—how can I help them make this work without insulting them? “Okay,” I finally say gently, “Divide your batter evenly. And set a timer. They’ll be thinner than the recipe so they won’t take as long to bake.”

Eden, grinning from ear to ear, nods her head and continues to whisk the chocolate mixture in her large metal bowl. The whisk hits the sides like a triangle in elementary school music class. “We’re going to put icing in the middle!” Her excitement is contagious; I feel my annoyance start to slip away. She loves the kitchen as much as I do, and watching her in action makes my heart leap with joy. “I’m so excited about it,” I reply. “It’s going to be yummy! I’m sure!”

“It’s time for the mayonnaise!” Eden announces, grabbing the measuring cup sitting next to her. “How much, Autumn?” Autumn looks at the recipe, then looks at Eden. “⅔ of a cup.” Eden scoops the mayonnaise out of the jar and into the measuring cup. “Ewwwww—this stinks!” she says, wrinkling her nose. We remind ourselves the reviews say it’s the best cake ever, and I take comfort in knowing there’s a box mix for backup.

They finish the batter and take a taste. That is, after all, the best part of being the chef. Autumn is the first to speak. “Um, this tastes weird.” Eden, so proud of all she’s done to get to this point, says otherwise. “I think it’s delicious! But I don’t want any more.” Usually, they fight over licking the bowl. The taste test doesn’t bode well. I taste it myself and have to agree with Autumn. I move my lips up and down, making a smacking sound. I try to identify the funny after-taste on my tongue. “It tastes herby,” I say, picking up the mayonnaise to look at the ingredient list. Sure enough, this fancy organic mayonnaise is seasoned with mustard seed and rosemary. 

David, wide-eyed, starts to apologize, certain he’s ruined the cake: “I’m so sorry! We tried to get the best!” I tell him there’s no need to apologize and remind him magic happens in the oven. “The flavors may even out when it bakes.” He opens the oven door and helps Eden place the pans in the oven. She pulls a stool over to the microwave over the stove and sets a timer. “Twenty-three minutes,” she says, “that’s ten minutes less than the recipe says. Is that good Mommy?” 

My intention to let them do this without me has totally failed. So much for staying out of my own birthday cake.

Twenty-three minutes later, the timer beeps. Eden runs to the oven. Opens the door to take a look. “Is it done, Daddy?” David delicately pulls a pan out of the oven and helps her check with a toothpick. She looks at him with a big grin, “It’s clean!”

“Now it has to cool for two hours,” Autumn pipes up. Engrossed in a book on the couch, I hear the clang of metal as they wrestle with the cooling racks sandwiched between sheet pans in the tiny cabinet. When they finally get the cooling rack on the counter, and the pans on the rack, I walk back into the kitchen and try to sneak a taste. There’s no extra batter anywhere. I slowly slide a knife into the side of the pan and dig out the tiniest piece.

“Hey Eden,” I call, as she’s running down the stairs to go outside. “Come here!” I split the crumb into two pieces, giving us each but a morsel of a cake. We taste it. Look at each other. “Well, it tastes like chocolate cake!” I say, relieved. “Yummy!” she says and trots down the stairs, pretending to be a puppy. To be honest, the bite was so small I couldn’t tell if it tasted like chocolate or not, but I am determined to like this cake. They’ve put their heart into making it. I won’t allow myself to be disappointed.

“It tastes like chocolate cake. Very dark chocolate cake.” I tell David, once the cakes have cooled completely and I’ve flipped them out of their pans. We taste the tiny crumbs stuck to the parchment paper left behind. “I think once it has icing on it, it will be scrumptious,” I say, trying to resurrect his confidence in this cake they worked so hard on. “But, I think you should use milk chocolate in the icing. Don’t use chocolate chips.”

I can’t help but offer advice in the kitchen. What I want, more than anything, is for them to be successful in their endeavor to make my birthday cake. I want to empower them. But I don’t want them to fail. Figuring out how to achieve both is like walking on a tightrope. It requires just the right amount of balance between being completely hands-off and offering advice.

A few days later, after we eat my birthday dinner and clear the plates away, the girls put candles on the cake. “Don’t put 41 on there,” I tell them; “I don’t think I can blow that many out!” They settle on six, confident I’ll get whatever wish I make. Autumn lights the candles and carefully picks up the plate. My heart jumps as she starts to walk with it in her tiny hands. They start to sing. I’m the starring role in a suspenseful movie. Waiting for the cake to drop. 

She gently places the cake in front of me. All six candles remain lit. I take a huge breath and blow, watching the flames flicker before they go out. Autumn hands me the knife. I cut pieces and pass them around, wondering who will be the first to take a bite. I give in; after all, it is my birthday cake.

One bite of this cake makes me feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. It is moist like the ground after a fresh rain. The crumbs stick together like pudding, forming a perfect bite on my fork. The taste is deep. Dark chocolate. The frosting is light and fluffy, like freshly whipped chocolate cream. 

However, there is a very faint taste of rosemary. Or maybe that’s just my imagination.

“Next time, let’s try Hellmann’s,” I say. 

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Mayonnaise Chocolate Cake

Adapted ever so slightly from The Complete Baking Book for Young Chefs by America’s Test Kitchen

Ingredients:

1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
1 cup sugar
½ tsp baking soda
¼ tsp salt
½ cup cocoa powder
⅓ cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 cup almost boiling water
⅔ cup mayonnaise (we recommend Hellmans)
1 large egg
2 tsp vanilla

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 350°. Spray inside bottom and sides of 8-inch round pans with vegetable oil spray and line bottoms of pans with a piece of parchment paper.

2. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, sugar, baking soda, and salt.

3. In a large bowl, combine chocolate chips and cocoa. Pour hot water over chocolate mixture and whisk until smooth. Let cool for 10 minutes.

4. Once your chocolate is almost room temperature, add mayonnaise, egg, and vanilla and whisk until combined. Add dry ingredients and mix until just combined.

5. Scrape batter evenly into two pans and smooth top.

6. Bake until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. It will take 20-25 minutes, depending on your oven.

7. When done, put pans on a cooling rack and let cool completely—about two hours.

8. When cakes are completely cool, turn them out onto a plate. Frost using your favorite frosting recipe. We like this one best.
   

some days are harder than others

It’s 9am. I’m on a barstool at the kitchen counter surrounded by letter tiles and notebooks. The remnants of cheese grits for breakfast are strewn about. My husband and daughters are standing by the stove in front of me working on the day’s science experiment. The smell of vinegar fills the kitchen, wrinkling my nose as it is poured into scalding milk. I normally hate the smell of vinegar but today it makes me smile. Today it smells like a family adventure. Today it smells like knowledge.

They are attempting to make something that resembles plastic. Did you know you could make plastic out of milk and vinegar? I didn’t. I’m still not sure it will work, but our science book says it will. So we give it a try. As they pour the plastic curds into a strainer lined with cheesecloth, my daughters hum a tune that I recognize as our hymn for the term: 

All Creatures of Our God and King
Lift up your voice and with us sing;
Alleluia! Alleluia!

Praise praise the Father, praise the Son.
And praise the Spirit, Three in one.
Oh Praise God; Alleluia

When they’ve molded their curds and the plastic is left to cure, the girls and I will gather our books and snuggle on the couch. We’ll drink Trader Joe’s Pumpkin Spice tea and read the Norse myth about how humans were created out of the ash and alder trees. Then we’ll compare it to the Genesis story we read yesterday about how humans were formed out of dust. We’ll practice math facts and Spanish words and they will teach me as much as I teach them. Maybe more.

It will be a beautiful day of learning.

Five years ago I was in the front yard with my friend Kelli talking about our Kindergarten plans. Her oldest is the same age as mine and we were just weeks away from the start of school. We lived in a rural town that had some of the best schools in the state. I was telling her about the rigorous school selection process that reminded me a little of sorority recruitment. After visiting six different elementary schools, all with different educational philosophies and curricula, my daughter landed a spot in our first choice. An art-based school, it was everything I dreamed of for my kids. “Every subject incorporates art somehow,” I said. “They use a social-emotional curriculum that will help her learn how to interact with others; and how to control her own feelings. It sounds perfect. But Kelli—I can’t shake this feeling that I’m supposed to homeschool.”

“Well maybe you should listen to that,” she replied. 

I prayed. I talked to homeschooling parents. I talked to parents of kids in school. I researched curriculum and educational philosophies and prayed some more. My husband agreed to try homeschool for Kindergarten and see how it went.

Now, we’re in our fifth year of intentional homeschooling. We’re homeschoolers by choice. Not homeschoolers out of necessity because a pandemic turned the world upside down. We didn’t choose to homeschool out of fear. We made a purposeful decision. But it never fails. Society always sows seeds of doubt in my mind.

Several months ago I was sitting at the counter talking to my husband, bouncing my knees up and down as I thought about the morning we had just had. It was a particularly trying day where no one wanted to do the things I had planned. Lessons didn’t sound exciting to my children; arguing with me about playing with Legos did. I had a set of poems I wanted to write and was struggling to find time to get them done. “If I put them in school, I’ll have time to write. Really write,” I said to him, stirring honey into the Paris tea brewing in my cup. He looked at me and said, “Yes, but you would miss your kids. Is that really what you want?” I tapped the spoon on my mug nervously and looked at him with what I imagine were the most confused eyes I’ve ever worn. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

A few weeks later I was talking with a mom at our town’s homecoming festivities. A mutual friend had just introduced us and she was asking the normal get to know you kinds of things. When she asked the normal “Where do your kids go to school?” I quickly replied, “Oh, we homeschool.” 

“Well, that’s an interesting choice,” she said; “what do you mean we homeschool?”

I was completely taken aback. Since the pandemic hit, people’s response to “we homeschool” has been nothing but supportive. “Oh, you are so lucky,” people say. “This is the perfect time to homeschool,” is another common response. I have never had someone tell me it was an “interesting” choice. Nor have I had anyone question my use of we. I wasn’t sure how to respond.

I covered my uneasiness with a kind smile and hastily told her I did the planning and most of the teaching, but my husband did help at times. I was grateful when someone walked over to say hi to her, allowing me to excuse myself from the conversation and sit with the question all alone. 

Many days passed before I finally had an answer to the question: “what do you mean, we homeschool?” 

The next week I walked down the stairs to my husband’s basement office. Making sure I wasn’t interrupting an important call, I whispered, “Hey, can we talk about whether or not we want to send our kids to school this year?” In the days that followed, we talked about our options. We looked at private schools that focused on the arts. We looked at the public school down the street. And nothing felt right. Nothing felt more true to who we are as a family than the way we have been learning together for the last five years.

We homeschool because we want a different life than the one society pushes on us. A slower life. A life where we have time to engage in hard things together. A life where we learn together. A life where we love one another and experience the world around us in a way that we wouldn’t be able to do with a normal school schedule.

Some days are harder than others. Days when the doubt creeps in and I wonder if my kids are missing out. But no education is perfect. We can do things at home that they will never be able to do in a school environment. And there are wonderful things about school that they’ll never get at home. No matter what we choose, they’ll miss out on something. 

The truth is we homeschool.

It’s a decision we make, as a family, every single year.

I can’t imagine them being gone for 7 hours every single day.

I love learning alongside them. We learn together. Every single day. I may come up with the curriculum, but my kids teach me as much as I teach them. 

We are modeling lifelong learning.

Crafting and implementing curricula. Learning together fills my cup to the brim.

I love spending my days with them. They are the most wonderful children to be around.

Watching them make connections between the things we learn is one of the best parts of being their Mama.

Homeschooling feels right. Homeschooling feels true. Homeschooling feels like us.

There may come a day when they ask to go to school. The connection with their friends—who almost all attend public school in the city where we live—may outweigh the connection they feel at home. They may long for something different. If that day comes, we’ll talk through it as a family. We’ll talk about the good of each choice—and the bad. And we’ll decide together what feels right.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series "True".

Like what you see here? Sign up for my Monthly Newsletter. Each month I collect all my favorite things from the month and send them straight to your inbox. This month’s newsletter will hit your inbox next week!

When Little Things Add Up

I am sitting on a beat-up yellow vintage couch surrounded by toys. There’s a small mouse finger puppet, a mouse beanie baby, an owl finger puppet, a dalmatian puppet, and a small plastic sheep that came in a farm set years ago. We are beginning a new book about Nicholas, a mouse who is taking a journey from the Berkshire Mountains in Western Massachusetts all the way to Cape Cod; and we are going to travel along beside him.

I have big plans to create a beautiful curriculum to go along with the book. I want to visit the places Nicholas visits. I want to learn the things Nicholas learns. Explore the animals Nicholas meets. I want to create memories with my children of taking the same journey Nicholas takes. 

As I read, I use the toys to act out the story. Pausing every few paragraphs, I ask them to narrate it back to me, offering the toys as props. I make mental notes about activities that might connect with the chapters we read, and for the first few weeks, I think I might actually write this curriculum as I had planned.

But weeks go by and I drop the ball. We no longer use toys as prompts. I no longer take notes about field trips or nature study topics that connect to what we read. We occasionally look at our state map when Nicholas finds himself in a new place, but my desire to be intentional about incorporating activities with our weekly reading has fallen to the wayside.

Instead, we read in small increments of 15 minutes three days a week. My children narrate the story back to me as we go. Along the way, we discover that Nicholas has become a friend. His journey an adventure we are on too—not because of the activities we do—but simply because of the words we read.

*****

A few months after we’ve finished reading Nicholas, we are sitting in a restaurant in Provincetown waiting on our lunch to arrive. We are on our annual camping trip in Cape Cod and this year we took a day trip to the very tip. When my oldest asks if they are going to re-use the placemats we were given when we sat down at the table, I immediately know where her mind is. “I don’t think so,” I tell her; “Why? Would you like to bring it home?” “Yes,” she replies, “I’d like to hang it on my wall. It’s a really cool map.” 

Knowing the placemat will likely be ruined by the condensation on her glass or the ketchup she will drop, I ask our server if we can have a few extras. “They’d like to bring one home,” I say. A few moments later, he walks over with 4 new placemats, rolled like a scroll and securely fastened with a paper wrapper. “I brought you a few extra,” he says, smiling at these two darling girls who are intrigued by the maps in front of them. 

I carefully put the scroll in my bag, promising they can take a look at them when we get back to the car. We look at the maps in front of us, pointing out the places we had been to earlier that week, and the places we still want to see.

After lunch, when they are safely buckled in their car seat boosters, they ask if they can see the placemats. Taking them from my bag, I pass them to the backseat. Eager to get another look, my oldest carefully removes the paper holding the placemats in their rolled-up form. She passes one to her sister and stares at the map in her own hands for the rest of the 30-minute ride back to our campground. I had no idea a simple placemat could bring a child so much entertainment and joy.

*****

“Mommy, look at my map of Cape Cod!”

I feel tiny grains of sand on the bottom of my bare feet as I walk over to the corner of the living room. The girls are playing with Kinetic sand and glass aquarium beads. The oldest has created a landmass of sand, surrounded it with glass beads and carefully placed jacks for the lighthouses we saw in Woods Hole and Orleans. As I stand over it to get a better look, she says, “Wait, I need to add something else.” She runs into the other room to grab a toy candy stick, returning to strategically place it at the top right edge of the sand. 

We have just come home from a week’s vacation in Cape Cod and she is excited to show me the 3-D map she has created with her hands. “This is the Pilgrim Monument,” she tells me, pointing to the candy stick. “It was here, right?” I nod my head.

“This is incredible,” I say. “Did you copy that from the map we brought home?” 

“No,” she replies, “I had the map in my head, so I did it from memory.”

I am amazed at her ability to re-create this map. For as long as we’ve been homeschooling, I’ve been wondering if I was doing enough when it came to Geography. Looking at state standards for what they should know, I feel uncertainty over my ability to teach the things they would learn if they were in school. All we do is read books. Occasionally, we look at maps. And yet here she is, in her free time, creating a map of our most recent vacation out of kinetic sand and glass beads.

*****

“Trust the process,” a homeschooling friend told me years ago. I had just begun homeschooling and recently discovered the writings of Charlotte Mason. I loved what I read—start small, short lessons, varied throughout the week. I wanted our homeschool life to happen organically, but I knew it needed a backbone of sorts, or I would feel like a complete failure. 

“Just let them play until they turn 6,” I read, over and over again; but the pictures of friends sending their kids off to school made me feel like “just letting them play” would mean putting them behind. Charlotte Mason became a gift. A compromise of sorts. I could read stories to them, have them tell me what they heard, and be done with school in an hour a day. Or less! My oldest was 5 at the time. It was her Kindergarten year, so we took it slow. We read Beatrix Potter. Madeline. Night of the Moonjellies. We drew pictures together. Went on field trips. I let them play. A lot. 

Each year since, I’ve added a few more books. We spend a little longer each day reading books and doing narrations. We spend time learning phonics, grammar, writing, and math. But still, no lesson last longer than 15-20 minutes. And most days, we are done with our lessons before lunch. 

I have learned to trust the process. And I’ve fallen in love with the process. We may only spend just a couple of hours each day doing lessons, but they bring those lessons into their free play. And when they invite me in to see what they’ve done, I see just how much they learn through small increments several times a week. 

Sometimes the days feel monotonous and it's hard to believe that tiny moments make a big impact. It’s so easy to get caught up in planning great experiences that I often forget the little things add up. In focusing on all the things I want to do—or all the things I’ve failed to do—I neglect to see the things we are doing.

And then, all of a sudden, when I least expect it, they pull toys out of the closet and create a project that I couldn’t have planned better myself.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series "Minutiae".

Like what you see here? Sign up for my Monthly Newsletter. Each month I collect all my favorite things from the month and send them straight to your inbox. This month’s newsletter will hit your inbox next week!