Clean.

On Stage.

It is performance weekend again. Ballet performance.

As those of you who've been here for a while know, I'm not really the sparkly tutu kind of mama. I'm more the... dirty bare feet type of mama. But I've come to accept that there are blessings in my daughter's love of ballet. Blessings that took me a while to warm up to, but that I've come to treasure as an important part of her journey.

Below is a re-post of my thoughts on all that tulle (from last year). Have a great weekend!

Love,
Rachel

Honoring Their Interests: Tutus, Tulle, and All.

One of my greatest challenges as a mother - and as an unschooling mother in particular - is honoring the interests of my children even when the collide with my own. I'm not talking about the army helicopter model kit or the requests to bring home a Bernstein Bears book from the library. I'm talking about bigger things. Like ballet.

I did not take ballet classes as a child (or dance classes of any kind) so the appeal is lost on me. I was a certified tomboy and the thought of wearing a tutu would have sent me screaming off into the woods to hide in the mud under a fallen tree. As an adult I have seen the gaggles of sequin clad children on our town's Main Street during performance night and wondered secretly "What were their parents thinking?" as I worried for the implication of all that glitter and glitz on girls so young. You could say ballet and Barbie occupy the same part of my brain in that: 1) The kids will enjoy it to the extent of their own personalities, but 2) at what future cost? I worry about my daughter being exposed to body image issues at way too young of an age or asking for me to put make-up on her face when I believe that nothing could make her more beautiful than her own natural sparkle. I worry about a four-year old striving for perfection at a time when life should be about the joy and freedom of play.

What can I say. I am a notorious over-thinker. Ask anyone who knows me well and they'll tell you.

So Lupine danced. And wore a flashy tutu. She climbed up on stage in front of more people than I could count under the bright lights and felt no pressure to be perfect. She didn't even ask for make-up. Though I bought her a ticket so she could sit with us, she chose to spend 1/2 of the big show down in front with her friends - not in the protective arms of her family.

And, um, she loved it.

In truth nothing detrimental came to my child because of a season of ballet and an afternoon of bling. Indeed, she thrived. (Thrived in the innocent four-year-old "we get to wear tutus!" sort of way.) She made new friends. She learned about boundaries through getting to know children very different from herself ("Ask her if you can hug her first next time. I think you surprised her.") The big performance was a blast for her, seeing the older children dancing and applauding their performances "so hard that my hands hurt from all that clapping!"

Yes, Lupine learned a great deal through this experience and those lessons went beyond the arabesque. She has a new best friend whom she never would have met without ballet. She stuck with something, week after week with joy. She is obsessed with France and wants to learn to speak french. (This includes requests for "French knots on all my clothes".) And she found joy in playful dance.

And me? I learned a great deal too. Like to sometimes push my worrying brain aside and trust her to know her own truths and to find her own joy, though they will be different from my own.

These are the lessons of motherhood.

Some Days...

"Bad days" in our house are rare. An anomaly in a long string of happiness. Most days around here are built on some combination of harmony, magic, laughter, and light.

Others days, however, are not.

Yesterday was the latter. It started out hard and went rapidly down hill. Like an elephant on rollerskates. I guess that's how the big lessons come. Fast and loud and something you simply can't ignore.

The day began with lots of (emotional, child-sized) interruptions while I was trying to work (and Pete was trying in earnest to parent) and kept unraveling from there. By 4 PM I was hiding in the basement with a coffee cup packed with ice cream and chocolate chips, pretending to do laundry. (When you consider that my five year old frequently follows me through the house, pulling this off was no small feat.)

No, yesterday was not my shining moment of motherhood. I yelled. I actually yelled - something I almost never do, and then I did it again, and then again, and again. I totally lost it. And for whatever reason, all of my non-violent parenting tricks flew rapidly out the window at the crucial moments when I could have (and indeed knew how to) turned it all around.

In hindsight the whole mess was rather ridiculous and was over some house cleaning nonsense that at the time seemed vital to my survival. (Clearly it was vital to my sanity, but not because it was actually important. I was just being stubborn.) I just made it into something bigger than it was because I was feeling stressed and overwhelmed by other things. And that took a lot of reflection to realize.

Yes, there is a lot on our plate right now. We're working on selling our house and buying some land and building a cabin to live in and... well, making some major life changes. And while this is all good stress, it is stress just the same. And somehow the momentum of all of the simplification I did this weekend left me expecting more from my five year old than she could possibly deliver. And I lost it. And that wasn't nice.

I could have gone to the place of being silly and playful to get her to join in the work, but I didn't. I could have made a game or a race out of it so that work became play, but I didn't. I could have talked to her about how frustrated I was feeling (I did) and then worked together with my girl to find a solution that worked for us both (but I didn't). 

I'm sharing this because I want you to know that things here are not always perfect. Days like this I never forget because they are ugly and unusual, but yes, I still have them on occasion.

Sometimes as parents we come unhinged - each in our own way, but it happens. And then what? And then we apologize. We pull it together. We hug and kiss and acknowledge that grown ups are human too. That mama just had a little tantrum of her own. And we look for a better way to do it next time. We connect and do our best to heal what we hurt. And we forgive ourselves for being human and get on with doing better tomorrow.

That is the mission that I'm on today. To find my higher self and parent from a place of love, not stress. Because yesterday's option felt good to no one. Not even me. Especially not me.

As for a better way to convince my five year old to clean her room - even with lots of help - next time? I'm not sure what that is. But yesterday will serve as a great example of what didn't work for anyone.

Today I'll remember to lead with love.

Love,
Rachel

The best laid plans, and leading with love.

I packed my hiking boots. My serger. Ingredients for spinach enchiladas. The book I am writing. My knitting. Some homemade chai.

We'd been planning it for weeks: a three-day craft weekend at the cabin. My friend, my sister, and me. A break from life sandwiched between two fly fishing weekend for Pete. Recharging my battery. Going away. (Sans family.) Something I have only done twice before during my almost decade of motherhood.

And then last week I got the flu.

When I thought about the weekend trip I wasn't worried that it would be an issue. I had a week to feel better. And I was right. I feel great. But then...

Pete got the flu. Last night. And I was supposed to leave today. Pete never gets sick. It didn't even occur to me.

"I'm okay," he assured me. "Don't worry. We'll be fine." He forced a smile while holding his belly. Then he laid down on the bed and appeared to fall asleep. I kept packing, but knitted my brow.

Taking care of two kids alone with the flu sounded horrible. But my flu was only bad for 24 hours, so by morning he'd be okay, right? Right. I kept packing. And worrying.

The kids and I spent the day in the country with some other unschoolers. We talked, we ate, and they played in the sunshine, the mud, and the watercress. Sage was happy and engaged all day. And then, just before we left (two hours before I was to depart on my solo trek) he said, "I don't feel well."

1/2 hour later he was sound asleep in bed, his cheeks flushed with a coming fever. I knew it was a fever. I could see it in his eyes. My sewing machine was on the front porch. Next to the cooler and my knitting basket. And my friend pulled up to the curb.

Slowly, we loaded her car. I ran inside to check Sage. His eyes were glassy, his cheeks were hot. He had a fever. I asked him how he felt about me leaving, and he just stared at me with wet eyes, barely shaking his head.

I walked back outside. I unloaded he car and said goodbye. And I'm sorry.

I was staying home.

I went in the house and told Pete I wanted to 1/2 sigh from relief and 1/2 cry. Because, yes - I was so disappointed that I was not going on my trip. But I would have hated to be gone when my kids family needed me. Because nothing is more important than my family.

Not even knitting. Uninterrupted. For three days.

Nope, not even that.

Edited: I wrote that last night. I'm so glad I stayed. In the night, my boy snuggled into my arm, we tucked in for sleep. He whispered, "Mama, I'm glad you stayed home. It's just... mamas are somehow more comforting than papas."

I get it. I remember feeling that way sometimes too.

And during the night he needed me. Headache, body aches, general icks. Today? I think everyone is feeling better. (Could it be true?) So perhaps I'll make it on my trip after all. And two days of interrupted knitting is almost as good as three.

 

 

More Peaceful Parenting. Step 1. Forgive, accept, and love yourself.

(Photos by Sage.)

Wow. This post was harder than I ever imagined to begin. Because I am thinking: Seriously? Who am I to offer advice on a subject such as this?

Who am I?

I am a mother. A daughter. A granddaughter. A wife. A daughter-in-law. A friend. A neighbor. I am an observer and a participant in both the story of violence and the story of intentional non-violence.

And I am selective as to which tradition I choose to pass on.

Indeed, I have lived the legacy of both peaceful and non-peaceful parenting from many vantage points. And I'm ready to step up and start writing a new story. Starting today.

From the comments on the earlier posts (both this one and this one) I know I've touched a nerve. And I've lost nights of sleep over worrying that someone out there feels judged and criticized by my words. And then today in the mail (the actual mail. With a stamp and paper and everything) came a note saying (among other things), "P.S. Thanks for trying and trying to get the point across about kids and respect. I think it's a big deal."

Thanks, B. I do too.

I think it's a ginormous deal. And no matter where we've been or where it looks like we're heading, we can make changes that better the lives of our children and ourselves. How empowering is that? We get to step up and take control of our choices. We're in charge! Awesome.

But before I dig in, just to be clear, I am not:

• An abuse counselor
• A psychologist - child or otherwise
• A person living with physical, emotional, or sexual violence
• A child living with violence
• A parent wresteling with depression or mental illness
• A person healing from major past trauma

I am simply, a mom. And a mom who believes that I can do better today than I did yesterday. If you are dealing with major trauma please seek help beyond this space. Here I am simply sharing my thoughts on bringing a bit more peace into your home.

Most importantly, my words are offered without judgement for where you are or where you've been; what you've said or what you've done. They are offered with hope and gratitude for where you have chosen to go from here. What an amazing gift for yourself, your family, and the future.

While I intended to start with how you think about, speak to, or otherwise engage your child, I realized that was premature. Because before our child there was us. And that story is woven deep within our story with our own children. So perhaps the first step will be the hardest one of all.

Step 1: Forgive, accept, and unconditionally love yourself.

And when you've got that one down then move on to loving, forgiving, and accepting your parents. And your child. "Oh, right. That," you say. "No problem."

Er, or not.

Because our family stories are thick with unhealed wounds. We carry them. We play them out in a new context. We remember them in every cell. Even what we choose to forget come bubbling up during times of stress.

And so I ask you to begin by doing something that may seem nearly impossible.

Why start with love, forgiveness, and acceptance? Because it's the foundation of what we're setting out to create. It's allowing ourselves, our parents, and our child to be imperfect. And within that imperfection to still be loved and accepted. Unconditionally. Think about that for a moment. Unconditional love. Isn't that a beautiful concept? We are separate from our actions. We are loved, even when we're acting like monsters. We matter, even when we don't think we should.

It's beautiful.

If you'd like some homework, grab a blank notebook and jot down three things you appreciate about yourself every night before you go to sleep. Three gifts you bring. Three bits of your sparkle. Because guess what? You were born to shine, too.

Edited to say: Please do this exercise, with our without the pencil and paper. I did it last night in my head before I fell asleep. And while I was slow starting, I came up with three things. I know you can too.

For the very brave, share it here too. (Not required, just gutsy.) Need more inspiration? This is fantastic. No go find your awesome. 

So much love,

Rachel

 

 

I See You.

I was so moved by your comments yesterday about what makes your child sparkle. Many of you know your kids so well. You see their soul - and their gifts - shining out.

But sometimes I know it isn't so easy. Plenty of you didn't comment (some because you don't comment as a rule, but others I suspect because that question was really hard.) Sometimes it's hard to see their gifts.

I acknowledge this to give you clearance to say "I don't really know what my child's sparkle is. Right now it's just hard." Because sometimes it's like that. I've been there. Really. I remember the first time I asked myself that question and I drew nothing but a blank.

But now? I get them. I see them. I feel them. You will too. With time. Find patience for yourself and your child. It will come.

For those of you who struggled with seeing your child's gifts, start watching. Be aware of the moments that make you smile more than the ones that make your grimace. Ask your partner. Your parents. Their friends. And soon a lovely picture of your child will start to emerge.

And sometimes seeing them from this new, appreciative vantage point will change the course of your day. Maybe even your relationship. It wouldn't hurt to do the same thing for yourself too. Becuase seeing yourself from a place of love and appreciation tends to spill over into how you see those around you.

I realized that I didn't participate in yesterday's kid-love-fest. So here I am with my contribution. Because I do so want to participate. In so many ways I think motherhood changed everything, and these two are where that transformation happened for me. 

Mister Sage. You are funny. Sharp. Wise beyond your years. You are my Sage in so many ways. You are also a study in contrast - quiet and rowdy, sensitive and oblivious, innocence and mischief. You are aware of the subtle energy around us, imperceptible by most. You feel. So much. And I honor that.

You taught me how to mother. You transformed me.

And Lupine, I am crazy about you in so many ways. Determined and strong, you know where you are going. I have no doubts you will get exactly where you choose to be. You are sweet and kind and nurturing, aware of the feelings of all who surround you. You are drawn to beauty and distracted  by faeries and magic and light. You are stardust. I can see your magic as you move through the room. I think we all can.

You sparkle. Constantly. 

Thank you both for choosing me. For choosing us. To be your family. We came together to learn and grow, challenge and be challenged, to transform and evolve. I'm up for that challenge. I embrace it.

I respect you. I like you. I love you. I trust you. I am your mama, and you will always occupy most of the space in my heart.

Seeing Their Gifts.

When Sage was small it was the two of us. Everyday. From wake-up until dinner time it was the Mama-Sagie show. For more than 4 years. Reading, cooking, cleaning, sledding, swimming, playing, working. We got quite accustom to each other's company. The past five years (since Lupine was born and Pete quit his job to join me in LuSa Organics) it's been the four of us most days. What a dramatic shift. It's been nothing short of amazing to have so much time for our whole family to be together. I count that blessing everyday.

And yet, sometimes one-on-one is perfect. Sometimes I miss it.

I got three sweet Valentines from Sage. Inside of one was a coupon for "one day of Mama-Sagie time". I'm cashing it in today.

There have been days (months?) when mothering felt like so much work. And when you're mired in struggle or worry or suffering it can be difficult to see the gifts that our children bring to our lives. I've been there. But these days I can see Sage's (and Lupine's) gifts so clearly, I wonder how I could have missed their magic in the past.

As we set out on our Mama-Sagie outing today I appreciate Sage's sensitivity, his humor, his intuition, his mind, his imagination, and his softness. And I appreciate the gift of a whole day with him alone. Just like old times.

Love,
Rachel

I Saw Her Sparkle.

I heard the way you spoke to her at the store. Like she embarrassed you. Like she wasn't good enough. She was five, maybe pushing six. She was free and sparkling and alive. You were her weight and her chain, making sure her boundless joy didn't lift her off the floor and out of your grasp.

What was your day like? I noticed that you in particular weren't having any fun. It was a shame. To be with such an amazing child and be only angry and frustrated and miss out on all the magic that lay in the palm of her small hand.

You scolded. You shamed. You controlled her every move. You rolled your eyes and told her she was irresponsible. And then you repeated it, even more loudly in case anyone missed it. "That's right. You're irresponsible. What do you think of that?"

But the question was rhetorical. I don't think you would have heard her reply if she had offered one. She was told that she was irresponsible in response to her polite request to be the one to pull the basket. The statement was preceded with an incredulous "No! You can't pull the basket." Because you're irresponsible.

She was irresponsible in your eyes because she had played. Just for a moment with that wheeled cart. She was bored with your shopping. And she was five for goodness sake. But she didn't yell or complain or whine or make a scene. She simply said, "Whee!" and gently - joyfully - spun the basket in a circle in the isle. She hit no one. She scared no one. She just played. For like four seconds.

And for that she was shamed and punished.

You barked at her when she walked a few feet from your side. That she must stay next to you and not venture an inch further. Unmoving she must wait for you to pick out your new dress, while looking across the isle at the display of second-hand toys just a few feet from her grasp.

It broke my heart.

And I almost said something. To you, to her - to somehow illuminate that dark cloud that was around you both. I wanted to protect her and make sure her magic was never snuffed out. If she were a puppy I'd have offered to take her off your hands. (But somehow I thought thrift-store adoption offers were frowned upon so I didn't suggest I take her home to join my own kids.) I talked to her for a moment as I looked at jewelery and you looked worried, like somehow she or I might cause more trouble in your already difficult day.

I almost said something. To help lift you both up from that darkness.

But then...

I saw it.

I saw her sparkle. She was unwavering. You weren't breaking her. Because her heart was made to shine and her wings would carry her high beyond your grasp and efforts to hold her back.

Indeed. She was magic. What were you?

I believe that every behavior is based in need. Hers. Mine. And yes, even yours. Her need was for play. For fun. What was your need?

Did you need others to respect you? Did your life feel out-of-control so you found control where you could, with your child? Did you feel lonely or depressed or angry or ashamed or powerless yourself? I ached for her. And I ached for you.

As I walked away all I wanted to tell you this: We speak the language of our children's futures.  Either she will shut out the sound of your voice or you will set the tone for what she attracts. Yours will become the voice of her friend, her partner, her boss, her inner self. Is she worthless? Irresponsible? Or do you see her gifts? Which future are you are sending her into?  

And then I longed to ask: Can you see her? Can you see her sparkle?

You have magic right here by your side. And I wonder if you can see her at all.

 ~ * ~ * ~

Edited to add: Thanks for your beautiful comments on this post. Many of you identify with the daughter, others with the mother, still others with my role as observer. No, I do not thing mothering is always easy. Yes, sometimes I lose my cool. Really lose it. But I believe in kindness, apologies, and the power of non-voilence. Mothering is the hardest job I've ever had, but also the one that I think matters the most. Good luck, mama, whomever you are. Sending healing thoughts your way. More about mothehood here.

Love, Rachel

Breast vs. Bottle: Moving Beyond Judgement.

This weekend was just what I needed. Long sleeps and long jaunts out into the quiet. Winter keeps calling us out to the woods. Oh, my. I love this place. (We'll know more soon about the offer we put in. I'll be sure to keep you posted.)

Unrelated, but quite central to my week and weekend is the circle of mothers I talked about in my last post. I've been reflecting a great deal on the tearful comments you all have left there. Such powerful words.

I've received a lot of thanks for organizing the "boob brigade" (as one of my more crass friends put it) of nursing mothers to pump and nurse this sweet baby. And I feel that gratitude is a bit misplaced. In truth I don't feel like I did that much that is of significance. I didn't have any milk to give and really that's the gift. But it has turned out to be something huge beyond description for the mother, the father, the grandmothers, and surely that sweet yummy baby. Because nothing compares to breastmilk, even if it can't be your own. I too am filled with gratitude - for all the mamas who have rallied to help, for grandmothers who don't bat an eye and someone else nursing their grandchild, and for community.

But all of this has turned into a bigger reflection in my own heart. It has me thinking honestly about the judgements that I carry despite my good intentions. Because this baby might not be able to nurse again. She might be bottle fed (because of the medications her mother requires) for the rest of her babyhood. And that has me thinking about the feelings that I must acknowledge that bubble up when I see a baby with a bottle. Not this baby, mind you, because I know her story. But what if I didn't?

I called my friend's home the other day and the big sibling answered the phone. When I asked to talk to their grandma I was told "She's nursing the baby." "I wish!" the grandma told me later. But to the sibling that bottle of breastmilk was nursing. It was nourishment, food, goodness, and love. There was no judgement in that child's heart for the symbolism carried by that bottle.

The raw honesty is that I'd like to believe that I am beyond judging. That I accept and allow others to live a different experience than I. And for the most part I do. But when I see someone mixing up formula for a fussing baby I cringe a little inside, despite myself. I assume things I should not assume. I am admitting this not because I think it is right, but becasue it is there and I need to pull it out into the light to acknowledge, understand and transform it. Because a baby with a bottle is not a natural, comfortable image for me. I struggle with it like others might struggle with the image of a baby latching on to her mother's breast, but for very different reasons. And that's my issue to sort through.

Does it come down to me subconsciously judging a mother for choosing not to nurse? Somewhat I suppose. I think know that I'm guilty of making assumptions at times. (And I'm working on that with all of my heart.) But I think what truly troubles me - what is at the core of my discomfort - is the lack of support that we provide new and expectant mothers and the breastfeeding sabotage that many experience on behalf of formula industry. Yes, for some bottle feeding is a safe and healthy way to keep a baby fed that otherwise could not be. But more often I fear it boils down to lack of support for mothers.

I did not grow up watching mothers breastfeed. My mom didn't know any other nursing mums in her own community. Yet she exclusively breastfed my sister and I, me until I was a walking-and-talking toddler. That was downright radical in the suburbs in 1973. (She also cloth diapered and fed us tofu. She was free-thinking. She was unafraid.)

Despite growning up without the normalcy of nursing, for me nursing my babies was a given. I nursed Sage for 3 1/2 years, he weaned when I was pregnant with Lupine, and I nursed her for 3 1/2 years. In those seven years I never once noticed a sideways stare for nourishing my child.

And today I can honestly say that every mother I know is or was a breastfeeding mother. But in many communities nursing is not normal. And that is a tragedy for both mother and child.

I do not know the details of anyone else's life. And it is surely not my place to judge the path that another family is on. I don't know why a mother weaned her baby or never nursed to begin with. Lack of community support, lack of partner support, medical challenges, postpartum depression, adoption, economic struggles, lack of employer support, or countless other issues may be at play. Frankly their reason is not my business at all. However the creation of communities that truly support mothers and babies is everyone's business.

The best that I can offer is the belief that we are learning and growing as individuals and as a community. I hold hope that we will empower the next generation of mothers and they will embrace the power they possess to nourish their baby - I think of that t-shirt that reads, "I make milk. What's your superpower?" - and also embrace the different ways that we each nurture and love our children.

And that as I move beyond my own quiet judgements, our societies are moving too - to a world where nursing is normal in every community, and where a bottle just means that there was a bump in the road through babyhood and a different way to lovingly deliver the nourishment that a baby needs has been employed. That's the vision that I'm holding in my heart.

Circle of Mothers.

Today I was looking for a photograph to illustrate a quick "have a wonderful weekend" sort of post. I'm wiped out and didn't think I had a proper blog post in me tonight. I found these photos and I pulled them into the page and was about to type my words.

And only after I set them into the post did I realize their significance.

The scene, made by Lupine last week, is a circle of mothers around a smiling baby. (It has a bit of a baby Jesus feel, but Lupine told me no, they were all the mamas and the baby was a tiny girl.)

Because sometimes it's like that. So many mamas surrounding one child with love.

The past few days have been both amazing and exhausting. I've seen an incredible community of women throughout our town and even our state rally together to love and support a family - a mama and baby - in need.

An emergency left a breastfed baby without access to her mama's milk. Formula (the first night), yes, but no nourishing mother's milk. As soon as we heard what was happening we reached out - do you need breastmilk? Yes. So we made phone calls, facebook pleas, and sent emails. And from that spark a fire spread through a beautiful community of women who reached out to other mothers and within hours that baby was in arms and nursing contentedly with another mama. Soon more milk arrived, pumped by local women and before long baby was contentedly sleeping with a belly full of love.

Three days later and dozens of mothers have joined in along with other members of the community - pumping milk, nursing baby, plowing snow, scheduling meals, hauling firewood, stoking woodstoves, and otherwise encircling this family with love. Others are coordinating to drop off loaner breast pumps, distribute homemade mother's milk tea, clean the family's home, and transport milk to the baby.

I think we're surrounded by angels. (Most of them lactating.)

The milk has continued to flow. Not a drop of formula has been seen since the call went out that help was needed. Local milk deliveries are happening a couple of times a day and even a few coolers of milk are en route from around the state to keep baby nourished until her mama can return home. I think it's fair to say that we've all been brought to tears over this incredible support. Oh, yes. The power of the mamas.

I'm tired. I'm ready to step away from my telephone and the computer for a while. But really, I feel full. I feel honored to be participating in such an incredible demonstration of love.

I'm grateful, exhausted, honored, and humbled. Somehow it all makes me feel small. But in a good way - in a "there is something much bigger than me happening" kind of way.

I feel blessed beyond words.

Thank you, amazing milk brigade mamas. You are my heroes.

(And mama, your baby is in the most loving hands. Heal well and come home soon. You are all so very loved. xo)

P.S. (Posted a couple of weeks later: See the father's musical tribute to these amazing mamas at the bottom of this post. You will cry. Then laugh. Then cry some more.)

I've gone a bit further with this conversation over here, reflecting on the support of breastfeeding mothers in our society and our own judgement we might carry on breast or bottle.

A Peaceful Parenting Mission Statement

 

Dear Sage and Lupine,

Let me start with the basics: I love you.

I say it every day, dozens of times, but it is truer than most words I can speak. I love you. With every cell of my being. On top of that, I like you, I trust you, I believe in you, and I respect you. I hope I continue to earn the same from you today in in the years to come.

Thank you for choosing me to be your mom. The journey into motherhood has been amazing so far, and I'm looking forward to all the chapters down the road in your beautiful lives. I have grown more since you came into my life than in all of the years before you. You've been so good for me. That's for certain.

I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be your mama. It's quite a gift to be the mama. Because of you I've re-thought everything - from the food I put in my mouth, to the thoughts I hold as true, to the vision I have for the future. Big stuff. Transformative stuff. It is shaping me.

I realized recently that sometimes as parents we temporarily lose our way. We get mired in the day-to-day business of our to-do lists, our housekeeping, and our pesky attachment to linear time (which you do not share). We start to desire obedience over free-thinking, compliance over questioning, order over creativity. We start to be stubborn and work to get our way more and more often.

And so I thought, hey, I need a mission statement. For parenting. Something to help me stay on track when the days get long and my patience grows short. Something to hold in my heart so that I always know where we're going and why we're doing what we do. A compass. For parenthood. Because afterall, shouldn't the kind of adults I'm hoping to grow here guide how I treat you as children?

A Parenting Mission Statement

I choose to raise children who are respectful and believe they are worthy of respect. To this end I will not force you to act respectfully, but rather I will treat you with respect, both modeling the power of respect and teaching you that you are worthy of it. You are a person, as valuable as any regardless of age. We all deserve respect. If you treat me disrespectfully I will tell you how it makes me feel so that you can grow as a person for these lessons.

I choose to raise children who are confident and who know themselves enough to be true to the song in their hearts. To this end I will not use shame or manipulation nor will I encourage conformity over free-thinking. I will instead support your dreams and desires and your hearth's truths. Your right answer and my right answer might not look the same. I'm good with that. You are your own person.

I choose to raise children who are kind and caring and see kindness and caring in the world as well. Because of this I will treat your feelings and needs with the utmost respect. Just because I am bigger than you doesn't mean I'll use power over you to get my way. I'll help you seek out and see kindness in the world throughout your childhood.

I choose to raise children who are honest and value the power of truth. To this end I will not use punishment when you act inappropriately but instead I will determine the need behind your behavior and help you find an appropriate way to meet every need. I believe that speaking the truth takes courage and should be encouraged with unconditional love - not discouraged by judgement or punishment.

(There will surely be more, but this feels like a solid start.)

And when I fail at these things (which I will sometimes) I will own my mistakes. I will apologize and let you know that I, too, am learning as I go. Right alongside of you two - the best teachers of my life.

Love,

Mama