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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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".

Mama Dreams, Daughter Dreams

I’m standing in the kitchen, flipping through my planner, when I realize it doesn’t go past June. My husband David and I have just booked a vacation for July. I want to write it down. I toss the deficient planner aside and yell, “I’m going to Staples!”

“I want to go!” my nine-year-old, Autumn, calls, running down the stairs so fast I think she’ll fall flat on her face. She gleams at me expectantly once she reaches the bottom stair.

I take a deep breath; I was hoping to go alone. But arguing about it will be more work than allowing her to come along. “Alright, put some shoes on,” I say. “Maybe you can help me choose one.” A huge smile illuminates her face as she shoves her feet into an old worn pair of black boots.

We arrive at the store and head straight to the planners. I can’t find one I want—something simple yet pretty, with lots of blank space for notes. I rifle through what they have, not noticing that my daughter has walked to the other side of the aisle. She comes up beside me with a sparkly notebook, covered in so many jewels it looks like it’s been bedazzled. “Mama, can you buy this for me? I’ll pay you back.”

“Why do you need that? Don’t we have notebooks at home?” The moment I speak the words out loud, I realize their irony. I have two other planners—at home—that I have deemed “not good enough,” yet here I am, looking for another.

“Well, yeah,” she replies, looking down at the floor, “but I want to write a story.” Her voice is a whisper, as if she’s afraid to even speak it out loud. 

Read the rest of the story in the May/June issue of Literary Mama.

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Homeschool Mom Encounters Season of Doubt; Has No Clear Exit Strategy

BEVERLY, Massachusetts — When a local writer began homeschooling six years ago, she assumed it would only be for a year or two. As time went on, however, she fell in love with Charlotte Mason’s philosophy of education. By the time her oldest daughter was seven, she thought she’d homeschool her two girls until they went off to college. But in recent months, a storm of doubt has appeared on the horizon.

“I’ve always loved the slow lifestyle homeschooling allows,” Crystal Rowe, 41, told reporters. “We used to lay around in our pajamas until eight or nine every morning. My kids played quietly with toys or games I left on the coffee table, and I journaled while drinking my morning cup of coffee. We could go on field trips any time we wanted.” 

They had a great routine going until several months ago, when the family brought home their first pet — an Australian Labradoodle puppy named Leonardo Dawg Vinci. Now her mornings are consumed with making sure the puppy doesn’t get into any trouble. Any books or toys left on the coffee table become destroyed, so her two daughters have taken to hiding in the homeschool room playing with Legos or painting with watercolors. The dog hates being in his crate, so it’s even hard to take field trips. “Although he is very cute and loads of fun, he’s also a ton of work. Our lessons are continuously interrupted and I constantly feel distracted,” Rowe said. “I’m just not sure I want to do it anymore.”

The season of doubt began long before the puppy arrived, Rowe’s husband reported. “This is a conversation we’ve had several times in the last year. The puppy may just be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.” 

At first, Rowe’s husband questioned homeschooling. “I don’t want our kids to be weird,” he used to say. Then he realized how much they were learning at home. “Through just her reading to them and their discussions, they see the world in a different light.” Now, knowing the work of homeschooling falls on her, he provides input, but respects whatever decision she makes. 

When the pandemic first hit in March of 2020, Rowe’s husband, like many Americans, worked from home. “It caused quite a shift in our routine,” Rowe said, “But we finally found our groove. After several months of him being home, we were able to free up time for me to pursue a dream of my own.” So in January 2021, Rowe returned to writing after a ten-year hiatus to stay at home with her two daughters. But the balance of time writing and homeschooling, as well as other household responsibilities, has not been easy for her. 

“We are committed to reassessing every year to make sure homeschooling is still working for everyone, but the last two years that wasn’t on the table. The pandemic made school the last thing on my mind,” Rowe confessed. “Homeschooling absolutely worked for us—and tales of pandemic education made me not think twice. But as we emerge from isolation, I’m noticing my kids feel more lonely than they used to.” 

Each Spring, the family talks about their plans for the upcoming Fall. Every year, Rowe asks her children if they want to try school. Every year, they have said no. But this year, both girls have expressed a slight interest in going to school in the fall. 

At first, Rowe felt overjoyed. “If my kids go to school, I’ll have a good chunk of time everyday to myself. I can write! I can do part-time ministry consulting! I can keep my house clean, keep up with the laundry, bake yummy things. Maybe I’ll actually find time to get in shape,” Rowe laughed.

But after a day or two, she began to feel overwhelmed with the idea of sending her kids to school. She believes the education they get at home is better than any they’d get at school, for many reasons, but especially because of how personalized it can be. 

“Homeschooling is one of my greatest joys,” Rowe reports. “I love reading with them and watching their brains soak up the material. I learn so much through teaching them, and I don’t want to give that up.”  

When asked, Rowe’s ten-year-old said she thinks going to school will allow her more time with friends. “I love being at home with my mom and sister, but I want more teachers. And I want more time with friends.”

“I feel like I need to honor her request and at least explore the possibilities,” Rowe said. “I take pride in incorporating their opinions into our family life, and I want them to know I hear their requests.”

Knowing her children won’t live with her forever, Rowe oscillates between feeling confident that homeschooling is the best thing for their family and wanting the time to pursue her own dream. Rowe says some days she thinks she’s only doubting homeschool because she’s exhausted by all the work the puppy brings. “I’ve had showers of doubt before,” Rowe said, “but the clouds always pass. We don’t expect adults to be in a large room filled with peers the same age for seven hours a day, so why is school set up that way? I want my kids to have friends, and other teachers, and even a bit of structure. But a full day of school feels like too much.”

“On the other hand,” she continued; “Maybe I finally believe I can be more than ‘Just Mom’ and am ready to outsource education to someone else. I’ve always asked if homeschooling was working for them each year. What if homeschooling isn’t working for me anymore?” 

That’s a question Rowe isn’t sure she knows the answer to. Parts of it are working. And parts of it are not. “My mind and heart are so unsettled,” she stated. “I have more questions and doubts than I do answers. At this point, the storm of doubt is raging. We’re investigating options, but we have no clear exit strategy.”

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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 "Breaking News".

How to Read (and Enjoy) Poetry

Did you know April is National Poetry Month? This is the final post in a three-part series on Poetry for Beginners. Don’t forget to read Part One: Discovering the Joy of Poetry and Part Two: Five Books of Poetry for Beginners.

Yesterday you were so inspired by my book recommendations that you went to the library, spent hours perusing the stacks, and picked out a book of poetry, right? If so, I’m so jealous of your free time! I did sneak fifteen minutes of alone time in the library yesterday afternoon, but didn’t bring any poetry home with me. Instead, I grabbed a new novel about Prussia and the Soviet Union during WWII. Perhaps I should have gone to the poetry section instead!

Whether you have a book of poetry waiting for you or not, I hope today’s hints will help you overcome any fear you might have of reading poetry. Once you stop overthinking it, poetry can be very enjoyable. It can even be a form of prayer. So, how does one go about reading—and enjoying—poetry? Today I’m bringing you five ways to start. The hardest part is opening the book.

Read it out loud

Did you know the oldest forms of poetry were sung or recited? Poetry predates any written language and is meant to be read out loud. When I first learned about the sonnet last year, I imagined troubadours traveling the streets singing familiar poems to anyone who would listen. It’s not unlike our favorite song lyrics today. In fact, one might argue that the best songwriters are indeed poets.

Something different happens in our brains when we read out loud. We hear rhythm and rhyme; onomatopoeia and alliteration. The language of poetry is richer and more beautiful when read out loud.

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Close your eyes and listen

The flip side of reading poetry out loud is to listen as someone else reads it to you. I love when my children read poetry to me. The words take on such a different meaning when I hear them in tiny voices. Without seeing the words, I hear the sounds the words make, and it transports me to a different time and place.

If you live alone and aren’t ready to share the experience of poetry with someone else, find an audiobook of poetry and start there. Most of the books from yesterday come in audio version (milk and honey, Brown Girl Dreaming, what kind of woman). Or if you’re looking for something different, Olio Live is a fantastic audio production.

Close your eyes as you hear the poem being read. What images come to mind? What do you hear? If you’re feeling brave, consider doing a little sketching as you listen. What colors appear along the back of your eyelids? You might be amazed at how much you get out of hearing a few words.

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Share it with someone

Share it with your children, your best friend, your spouse, or even your pet. Experiencing poetry together brings a shared experience that you can have conversation around. Make a cup of tea, pull out a box of crackers, enjoy one another’s company as you talk about a poem or two. Poetry is always better with a friend or two.

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Start a Poetry Journal

I know this sounds daunting, but remember—poetry is not about understanding. It’s an experience. Poetry is an art. Like a masterpiece painting, a poem is meant to be interpreted by the person experiencing the words. It is likely that you will come to a poem with a different perspective than I will. And neither of us will be right. Nor will we be wrong. That’s the beauty of poetry!

You can use your notes app in your phone, or you can buy a new notebook. I love any excuse to buy a new notebook, but you do what works best for you. Copy the poem in its entirety. I prefer to write it with paper and pen, because I think our brains process things differently when we write compared to when we type, but again—do whatever works best for you!

Once you’re poem is written in your new journal, take a few minutes to jot down a few notes. Once you’re poem is written down (or typed), make a few notes about what you felt as you were writing it. Think about your senses: What do you see? Taste? Hear? Feel? Smell? Do any memories pop up? What questions do you have?

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Feel whatever it makes you feel.

Perhaps the most important thing is to simply allow yourself to feel whatever it is the poem makes you feel. Sit with it for a moment or two. Allow yourself to enjoy it.

And if you don’t enjoy it, then find a new book of poetry to explore. You may not like every book of poetry. You may hate Emily Dickinson (who I love) or John Donne (who I despise). Here’s a little secret … that’s okay! There are so many books of poetry out there that you can put that book of John Donne off to the side and find a new poet to love.

Whatever you do, when you find something that you love, make sure you come back here and tell me which poem first stole your poetry heart!

Discovering the Joy of Poetry

Did you know April is National Poetry Month? This post is the first in a three-part series on poetry. Don’t forget to read Part Two: Five Books of Poetry for Beginners and Part Three: How to Read (And Enjoy) Poetry.

I have a book of poems I wrote in my teen years—none of which feel particularly “good” nowadays—but writing poetry as a teen wasn’t about form or style. My teenage poetry took the form of a lot of questions. There weren’t many metaphors; not a lot of figurative language. It wasn’t poetry that would get any literary awards.

I never thought about being published. I wrote poetry as a way to process my emotions when I was going through hard times. Inspired by the psalms, my poems were prayers. Cries out to God to change my circumstances, or to give me strength to carry on. My teenage poetry was mostly sad. It was emotional. It was poetry that no one could write but me.

Ironically, though I wrote poetry in my high school years, I didn’t like to read poetry. Scarred by my high school English teacher’s questions: “What did the poet mean?” “What was he trying to say?” Reading poetry felt too hard; too scholarly. I didn’t want to think about the meaning behind the poem. I wanted to talk about what the poet was going through. I wanted to know her story. I had no interest in understanding metaphor or personification. I wanted to read something that made me know other people felt emotions deeply too.

I didn’t show anyone the poems I wrote. I kept them hidden in a box under my bed. When I graduated high school and went off to college, I left it at home. It was seven years later, cleaning out a closet at my Mom’s house, when I discovered my forgotten notebook, stuffed to the brim with favorite quotes and original poems.

Last year, I took a poetry course, in an attempt to rediscover the poet I once was. The first assignment was to create a poetry notebook. I groaned at first. Was this going to be another exercise in trying to figure out what the poet meant? But the instructions were different than I expected.

Choose any poem you’d like and copy it in your notebook. Underline words or phrases that stick out to you. Write about the senses: What does the poem make you see? Hear? Smell? Taste? What does it make you feel? Does it remind you of anything? What do you wonder?

These are all questions I’ve used when doing nature study with my kids, but I never thought to apply them to a poem. I soon learned reading poetry isn’t as much about understanding as it is about feeling. In a few short weeks, poetry became fun again. Poetry became a new way to play.

Each term, my kids and I choose a poet to study as part of our Beauty Loop. Study is really a misnomer; it’s more like a Poet Focus than a study. We don’t do much except read a short biography of the poet at the start of a term and one poem each week. Before I began my poetry notebook, I’d read a poem out loud and cross it off our list. But once I began enjoying poetry on my own, I wondered if there was more we could do to enjoy poetry together. We occasionally had poetry tea times—although not as often as I would like—but I wanted to bring my children into this new way to experience poetry. 

I wanted them to feel.

One day last fall, we sat on the homeschool room couch, cuddled together like three peas in a pod. Shakespeare was our poet and his poetry feels so hard. It seemed like a good time to experiment and have a little fun.

“Let’s try something new,” I said, grabbing my Teacher’s Guide off the table. “I want you to close your eyes as I read the poem.” My girls nodded their heads in agreement. Sometimes I ask them to close their eyes when we listen to a piece of music, so this request didn’t feel too odd.

“As I read, I want you to think about what images come to mind. What do you see? What do you hear or smell? What do you imagine in your mind?”

They closed their eyes and waited for me to begin. I read the poem out loud, being careful of the meter and rhyme. I discovered meter and rhyme in my poetry course, and I know what fun can be found in a sonnet. It almost makes you want to stand up and march.

“I like that beat,” Autumn said when I finished the final syllable. “It was almost like music.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” I agreed. They smiled and asked if I would read it again.

“I will, but first tell me what you imagined.” In rapid fire they began sharing what came to mind. 

“It seemed like he was sad,” Autumn said. 

“I saw a big mountain, with a grassy field and flowers,” Eden chimed in. 

After they told me all that was on their mind, I told them to stand up. I read it again. This time I saw their bodies begin to sway, moving along to the beat of stressed and unstressed syllables. I stood up and began to clap my hands to the beat as I read the poem a third and final time.

I finally understood the masterpiece of the Shakespearean sonnet. All it took was a little imagination and a little reading out loud.

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Chasing Dreams

The counter is covered
with the day’s supplies.
Colored pencils, base ten blocks,
workbooks, toys.

Heads full of knowledge
Imaginations running wild.

The morning sun streams
through the windows,
bringing warmth and happiness
to the cold winter day.

She cuts up an apple,
opens two cheese sticks
Answering questions
as they work to master another skill.

Mornings are her best time—
her most creative time—
but in this life they live,
mornings don’t belong to her.

She opens her notebook
Grabs her pen.

She’s learning to capture words
in the midst of the ordinary
Instead of waiting
for inspiration to strike.

This is what chasing her dreams
looks like today.

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10 Things Saving My Life Right Now

Yesterday marked the midpoint between Winter and Spring. Spring will be here in 45 days, no matter what the Groundhog says. We can feel the days starting to get longer—we know the sun is setting a bit later each day—and yet we can feel our bones longing for the endless days of summer, when we stay up long past our bedtimes making s’mores and catching fireflies.

It’s this time of year that the winter doldrums start to hit. The thick snow that falls one weekend melts away several days later, taking our winter playground away. The sky is grey and cloudy, making us want to cry tears with every raindrop that falls. We start itching for warmer weather and sometimes forget the beauty that exists right before our eyes.

Every time about this year, Modern Mrs Darcy, taking a hint from Barbara Brown Taylor, invites readers to share “What’s Saving Your Life Right Now?” I love the practice of listing ten things giving me life in these dreary late-winter moments, so here we go … ten things saving my life right now.

Homemade Sourdough Bread

Not long after we moved into our house, a neighbor won my heart when she brought me the most delicious loaf of homemade sourdough filled with sweet black walnuts. She walked it up to my door with a jar of fig jam and a hunk of really good blue cheese and we’ve been friends ever since. 

The following winter, I decided I should try again to make sourdough bread. I tried to make sourdough bread several times when we lived in Atlanta, but every time was a flop. My friend gave me books to read, patiently answered all of my questions, encouraged me when my dough failed to rise, and even joined me in eating the flat, dense sourdough I had made. It took me six months, but I finally made a good loaf of sourdough bread (and danced around the kitchen like a loon the first time it happened). Now, five years later, bread-making day is one of my favorite days each week.

Sharing Meals

Last week, we had dinner at our friends’ house. That same friend that brought me homemade sourdough bread loves me so much she makes us shrimp & grits. On Sunday, the yard was filled with neighbor kids, shoveling sidewalks and digging tunnels in seven-feet mounds of snow. Later that day, a different neighbor invited us over for chicken pot pie. This weekend, we’ll have dinner at three different houses, to celebrate the end of the week, a birthday, and the kids’ reading all of Harry Potter. There’s something holy about joining together over a meal. It’s been nearly two years without sharing regular meals with one another, and I’m beyond thankful that it’s possible once again.

Church

I am so grateful to be part of a healthy, thriving church community. At the end of last year, we received a new pastor, and her gentle, yet powerful spirit is filling my heart and mind full of energy and excitement about the future of the church. We found our church just a year before the pandemic and we missed it more than anything else during the pandemic shut down. While worship still doesn’t look like it did in 2019, [maybe it never will?] being able to worship together is giving me so much life right now.

Encouragement

Over time, as David and I began to create community here in Massachusetts, people have begun to see our gifts and are encouraging us to use them. Gifts of hospitality, leadership, music, and writing; gifts that have been sitting unused for far too long. The hardest part of moving some place new is that no one knows you, and it can be hard at times to offer up our gifts to people we don’t know. We’ve both been invited to participate in leadership positions at church, and having someone really see our gifts and invite their usage is a true gift to us.

Lots of Layers

There was a time when getting outside in the winter was something I would never dream of doing. Then I learned that nature is God’s gift for helping us feel grounded, no matter what the weather. “There’s no such thing as bad weather,” as the Scandinavians say. It may be the midpoint between Winter and Spring, but freezing temperatures will be here for much longer than 45 days. Last year I invested in silk long underwear, and they are my favorite splurge purchase ever. This year I bought hand and feet warmers. With long underwear, good snow pants, and pocket warmers, there’s no excuse to stay indoors. The more we can be outside, the happier everyone is. 

Beaches

We live in close proximity to more beaches than I can count on both hands. Just yesterday we piled on all of our layers and headed to Plum Island, where we saw sand and snow mixed together in such a way that it looked like nature’s pudding parfait. The ocean is more healing than anything I’ve ever experienced, and sitting on the shore never, ever gets old. 

Homeschool

It is an honor and a privilege to be able to stay home and educate my kids. Every single day I learn something new from them. They teach me as much as I teach them, if not more. I know homeschooling is not the right choice for everyone, but leading them and learning alongside them is one of the very best parts of the cold and dreary days of winter.

Health

In a time where health is uncertain, I’m grateful that we have remained healthy through the many pandemic. We’ve fought a cold or two, but we’ve had no major illness. I am not the best mother—or wife—to sick people, so the more healthy days we can have, the better I feel.

Older Kids

The fact that my kids are seven and nine and not two and four is absolutely saving my life right now. I loved my babies, but there’s never a day goes by that I wish my kids were little again. We’ve reached a beautiful moment in parenting and I’d like to keep them this age for a little longer, I think.

My Husband

Our anniversary is in February, and David is always one of my favorite things about the month. He adores me. He thinks I’m gorgeous and can’t stay away from my body. He loves the way my mind never stops challenging him. He challenges me—gently— and he makes me a better me. 

Now it’s your turn. Tell me in the comments below: what’s saving your life right now?


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100ish Things I Love

I love the ocean. I love watching waves move back and forth. I love the sound waves make when they crash along the shore. I love the feeling of warm sand between my toes. Or cold sand. Any sand will do.

I love bathing suits in summer. Cozy sweaters in fall. Silk long underwear and snowsuits in winter. Lightweight scarves in spring.

I love the way snow clings to pine trees. Or to empty branches. I love waking up to freshly fallen snow; looking out the window makes me feel like I’m living inside a snow globe.

I love getting into a bed made with freshly laundered sheets. I love turning down a fluffy comforter and singing I know I’m gonna like it here. I love snuggling under my L.L. Bean heated blanket when it’s so cold I don’t even want to move.

I love the smell of clothes dried in the sun. The way the towels get stiff they almost scratch your skin.

I love pulling a bunch of ingredients out of the fridge and figuring out how to create a delicious meal. I love when everyone is surprised they like something they’ve never had before.

I love picking up food from Springdell Farm. I love the way Farmer Jamie makes me feel like family. I love sitting in the adirondack chairs in the freshly mowed grass, soaking up the sun as I watch the sheep graze in the field.

I love feeding people. Especially when they have dietary restraints. I love how the extra challenge of not being able to use certain ingredients gives me a way to love them a little harder.

I love homeschooling. I love sitting on the couch reading out loud. I love hearing my daughters’ thoughts about a book we’ve read. I love watching them internalize the world around them. I love the way their brain makes connections between the books we read and the life we live.

I love how David makes me coffee with frothed milk, brings it up the stairs, and sets it on the coaster on the table by my bed. Every single morning. I love how the girls climb into bed with me with their books and consider it a snugglefest.

I love a movie so good it makes me cry. I love books that make me feel as though I’m living in a different time or place.

I love a smooth-writing pen. I love watching ink appear on the page as I move my hand along the paper.

I love the smell of a pine forest. I love the smell of snow clouds.

I love being at home. I love a clean house. I really love being at home alone in a clean house.

I love the sound of childhood giggles.

I love a cup of hot tea. I love chocolate cake. When I have both at the same time, it’s a love explosion.

I love visioning for ministry in the church. I love leading teams, asking questions, hearing people’s dreams, and helping plan to make those dreams a reality.

I love thinking outside the box. I love remembering why the box is there in the first place.

I love my mom. I love the way she always trusts me, always loves me, always hugs and kisses me.

I love my aunts. I love my sisters. I love that I was raised by strong women who really don’t have a clue just how strong they are.

I love the surprise of rainbows. The way they always remind me of God’s endless promises.

I love love LOVE my book club. I love that what started as a spark of an idea has taken off and become the most incredible group of women that sit around and drink wine and tea and talk about books together.

I love getting messages from people I haven’t heard from in a long time, sharing something that reminded them of me. I love when a reader emails me to tell me my words matter.

I love painting my nails. I love a good nail polish—the kind that goes on smoothly and evenly. I love the way my nails shimmer and shine after they’ve been painted.

I love warm and cozy socks. I love soft slippers. I love a good bathrobe. I love buying gifts for people. Or making gifts for people. I love giving gifts.

I love dancing in the kitchen. Especially to music I loved when I was a kid. I love when songs from my teen or young adult years come on and I can still sing every single lyric. I love when the lyrics make tears fall down my face.

I love deep intimate conversations about love, politics and theology.

I love smooth legs and a smooth face. I especially love it when they happen on the same day.

I love David’s blue eyes that gaze at me every day as if I’m the most beautiful person in the world.

I love a bath so hot it makes you sweat, with a glass of ice water in one hand and a waterproof Kindle in the other.

I love the ELCA Lutheran Church. I love how its theology grounds me and how its people challenge me. I love how God continues to speak truth in grey. I love Holy Communion. I love Baptisms. I love big organ processionals and festival services. I love old hymns. I love contemporary Christian music.

I love youth ministry. I love listening to tweens and teens talk about what’s happening in their life. I love walking alongside them as a faithful adult.

I love tacos. Any and all tacos. And enchiladas. And chips and salsa and queso.

I love a good pizza.

I love hiking when the temperature is not too hot. I love the way nature always surprises me. How there’s always something new to discover.

I love baking sourdough bread. I love the way flour and water mix like magic to create yeast. I love the heat of the oven on bread baking day. The way the bread crackles when it comes out of the pan. The smell that permeates the house.

I love learning. I love my writing group. I love my editors—even when what they have to say is painful to hear. I love the way they believe in my stories. How they encourage me and challenge me to keep at it.

I love a good writing prompt. I love an unexpected theme. I love a planned theme. I love making lists. I love that once you start thinking about what you love, you can’t stop at just a hundred.

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".

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Ode to the Fisherman’s Wife

Ode to the Fisherman’s Wife

The salty air sprays my tired face 
as I slowly trudge to the harbor.
The boat was due back yesterday;
yet there’s still no sign of its arrival.

The icy wind whips my hair, 
blowing my dress between my legs
and tearing my heart into shards.
My son holds my hand tightly;
cars whizz behind me; I am completely unaware.

Fog so dense the lighthouse beacon barely glows;
Uncertainty grabs at my soul like a lion in a cage.
The baby I carry on my hip was a chick just hatched 
when his boat left the shore;
the child at my side a young fledgling.
Worry paints new wrinkles on my face.

Angry waves foam against the rocks;
Seagulls sing an elegy;
Ferocious clouds above threaten another squall.
The smell of tulips fill the air;
I long for the smell of rotten fish.

My legs buckle—Will I have to face this life alone?
I stand firm—I must be strong for these children of mine.
I want to fall and weep here on the cobblestone.
Instead I stand tall, looking out, my hope a beacon;
praying for his safe arrival.

We had just moved to the North Shore of Massachusetts when we first visited Half Moon Beach. We were driving home through Gloucester in search of the Fisherman’s Statue when we passed a statue of a woman with two children watching over the ocean. I knew very little about the history of Gloucester, but there was something about this statue that made me want to know more.

I instantly knew it would become a favorite place of mine and went home that day to research her. Erected in 2001, the Gloucester Fishermen’s Wives Memorial is just a few blocks away from Man at the Wheel—a statue erected in 1923 in honor of the Gloucester fishermen. At its base, it reads:

“The wives, mothers, daughters, and sisters of Gloucester fishermen honor the wives and families of fishermen and mariners everywhere for their faith, diligence and fortitude.”

When I received an assignment to write an ekphrastic poem in my recent poetry class, I immediately thought of this statue. I thought it could be a good excuse to sit by the ocean for an hour or two, but the weather for the week didn’t look promising. When I woke Friday morning to sunlight streaming through my window, I seized the opportunity.

I called the girls upstairs and told them my plan. I was going thrifting, then to sit by the fisherman’s wife—did anyone want to go with me? They responded with a resounding “YES!” I reminded them I needed to sit there a while and write, so they needed to pack their own activities. They happily agreed, excited for the adventure. We all love going to Gloucester, and it had been far too long since we had taken a day to sit by this favorite statue of ours.

We went to the local thrift store and then out to brunch like I had promised. I thought if I had filled their bellies, they’d be more likely to let me sit for a while. Grateful to find a parking spot in a space with a 1-hour limit instead of 30-minutes, we parked and gathered our things. With backpacks on, the girls raced towards the tulips in bloom. I grabbed my bag and strolled along The Broadway, soaking in the smell of the sea. We stopped to smell the tulips and take some pictures before arriving at our final destination—The Fisherman’s Wife.

We walked around her slowly, taking pictures and noticing details. My kids are great at observing works of art; they love pointing out things they notice and I love hearing their perspectives. After a few minutes of this ad hoc Artist Study, I found a spot on the bench and took out my notebook and pen. Autumn continued taking pictures and Eden sat down beside me to play with the toy dog she packed in her bag.

Just as I found my flow of writing sights, smells, and sounds around me, the littlest quietly said, “Mama, I think I drank too much at lunch. I have to go potty again.” I gathered all of our things and headed to the porta-potty at the end of the street, checking my watch to see how long we had been parked. At that same moment, I got a text from David telling me he needed the van to pick up a couch we bought at the thrift store that morning.

I took a deep breath, gave a final glance of longing toward the fisherman’s wife, and loaded everyone in the car to go home.

Later that weekend I pulled out my notes and tried to recreate the scene in my mind. It wasn’t quite as magical as writing a poem while sitting at the feet of the fisherman’s wife; but as I wrote the words from the safety of my home, I felt a deep connection with this wife and her longing.

In 1991, a commercial fishing vessel and her 6-man crew were lost at sea. If you’ve seen the movie A Perfect Storm, you know the story. I highly recommend the book. It’s an incredible nonfiction account of the storm and the people involved. It reads like a thrilling novel. I had a hard time putting it down.