This post first appeared on Coffee and Crumbs on December 4, 2017

Broken Pieces

They squint their eyes to the sun as they file out of the classroom and onto the blacktop. About 20 first-graders form a line, like ants in a squiggly row on their way to a sweet treat. School is out for the day, and it’s time for the transition to home or daycare or extracurricular activities. I wait among the other parents, mingling and scrolling through their phones, making small talk or catching up on social media. I wonder what they will do when they get home. Do they worry about their children as much as I worry about mine? Do they pray for their children to be safe, to feel loved and respected? Do their children immediately spill over with details from their day at school, or do they hold back, as my daughter does?  

The students excitedly clutch freshly hand-painted flowerpots and chat with their classmates. My daughter is one of the last to come out, as she usually is, nervously darting glances to see if I am there, using her arms to protectively cover up the surprise she has made for me.

I think she looks so anxious walking out the door. This is typical of her. Her cheeks are flushed, the rest of her face pale. The strain of being at school, holding herself together to have good behavior, shows in the shadows under her eyes. I know it is hard for her, my sensitive child, to be around so many other children, each with their own quirks and personalities. Her large blue eyes—Disney princess eyes, I call them—peek out from under the strands of dark hair that hang in her face, then back down at what she is carrying.

I wonder what her day was like. Did she have any friends play with her at recess today? Was she teased or bullied? Did she have enough to eat at lunchtime? Was she kind to someone who was lonely? My heart aches that I can’t be with her all day, can’t protect her from the barrage of emotional input that comes from attending school. She carries the sequence of the day in her mind, ruminating on what the other students say and do, quietly absorbing it and locking it in, only to break later at home when her emotions spill over and become too much for her to bear.     

She stops and puts the flowerpot behind her back, pretending to hold nothing, looking at me boldly, daring me to fall for her ruse. She walks over to where I have been patiently standing, brother and sister in the double stroller, strapped down and eagerly awaiting their sister.

“Don’t look!” she instructs me.

“I’m not,” I say. Truly I don’t. I know what she carries, but I don’t peek at her design, at the details she meticulously painted. I’ll wait for the surprise to come later, to study what she’s done and exclaim over her artwork when she is ready for me to do so. I know she has a procedure in her mind, my little strategist, analyzing and planning how she is going to present it to me.   

Her teacher follows the rest of the class down the ramp, herding the children as she walks. She notices us standing there, my daughter eyeing me as she tries to hide the flowerpot behind her back.

“Let’s put it in the stroller,” the teacher says to her, giving me a knowing glance, seeing a possible catastrophe and presenting a solution. I turn around and pretend not to notice this kind action, the teacher helping my sensitive child fulfill her plan of hiding the flower pot from my view. I know this is important to my daughter, and I want to respect her.  

We walk down the sidewalk away from the school, flowerpot tucked safely in the basket of the stroller, brother and sister happy to be moving again. We stop and wait for cars to go by and she decides to carry the flowerpot again. She wants to hold it close to her and make sure it’s secure in her hands. She takes it out from under the stroller, grasping it with one hand in front of her. We start walking again, me pushing the stroller in front and her trailing behind. I glance behind me and remind her that I won’t look; she doesn’t have to worry.  

We are on the sidewalk in front of the school, heading to the crosswalk, surrounded by kids rushing past and loading into cars. A loud “CRACK” behind me makes me whirl around.

My daughter’s hands are empty, clutching air, a look of shock in her wide eyes. On the ground is the pot, broken into pieces. The dirt and seeds that had been carefully poured inside are now a haphazard pile on top, the popsicle stick sign of the happy sunflower she had planted is fallen on its side. She freezes, then her face crumples and the tears come through red-rimmed eyes, and she sobs as I kneel and hold her. I choke back my own tears and comfort her through our embrace.

I let go of her to bend down and retrieve the pieces of the pot, digging through the dirt for each precious one. She stands and watches, sniffling and not sure what to do. A mom who was walking with us hands us some baggies to put the pieces in. An older boy heard the crack of the pottery and rushed in to help. We carefully place the fragments in the baggie and filter the dirt through our fingers to make sure we didn’t miss any. The mom hands us another baggie and I scoop up the dirt, seeds mingled in. I put the baggie of dirt, the broken pot, and the wayward popsicle stick sign under the stroller and continue the walk home, my daughter trailing forlornly behind.

I unload the younger two from the stroller and usher them inside the house. My daughter goes in to put her backpack away, and I lay out the baggies on the kitchen counter. I retrieve the glue gun from the craft closet and plug it in.

“Let’s see if we can glue the pieces back together,” I say. I know she is still upset. I am too.

“I have another pot if you want to paint that instead,” I suggest. I show her the other flowerpots I have, not exactly the same, but we can make one work.

We pull the pieces out of the baggie, one by one, and line them up on the counter. I can see the detail she put into it, the pattern she carefully thought out. A pattern of pink and blue, then red and green, little flowers with bright yellow centers.

She picks up pieces and turns them this way and that, lining up the ones that go next to each other. It’s a ceramic puzzle, and I talk to her about each piece as we examine them.

“I like the pattern you made here. What made you decide on these colors?”  The glue gun is ready, and I carefully squeeze out the glue as she hands me the pieces that fit. We work together, her picking through the shattered pieces as I hold and glue them.

The flowerpot is back in one piece, and together we analyze our work. The evidence of its unfortunate demise is noticeable in numerous cracks oozing with glue, some pieces overlapping, others jutting out at odd angles where we struggled to force them back to the way they were, back to being whole.

She frowns.

“I think I’ll take one of your flowerpots,” she says. I give one to her and she escapes to her room, taking the baggie of dirt and seeds and the sunflower sign with her. I can tell she is forming a new plan in her head, moving on from what felt like a tragedy earlier. I am thankful she is resilient, that she let me help her rebuild her creation instead of giving up or shutting me out.  

I place the flowerpot in the windowsill in the kitchen, planting an African violet that will soon display vibrant purple flowers amid soft green leaves. It sits perfectly in that cracked flowerpot, a place of prominence in front of the kitchen sink. I see it every day and am reminded that plans are fragile, that accidents happen, but we can work together to put things together in a new way or come up with a new plan.   

I pray for my daughter as I wash little hands under the faucet or water plants on the windowsill. Standing at the sink, looking at the African violet that blooms gracefully in the cracked flowerpot, I pray for her as she is in school. I pray she will have strength to be true to herself, that she can mature and bloom no matter what might break as she grows. I pray she will share her thoughts with me, that she knows I will always be there to help her pick up the pieces, even though I know someday she will figure it out by herself, and so I pray she feels the joy and peace that come when strong roots grow from cracks and buds sprout from broken pieces.  

7 Reasons Why I'm Not Ready for School

I remember when I was growing up, Back to School usually happened around my birthday (August 31, just so you know).  Now, my elementary aged daughter is starting second grade. Tomorrow. We're not even two weeks in to the month. 

That's too soon for me. 

I know many people out there who are just dying for summer to be over and the kids to go back to school. They are tired of their kids complaining of boredom, or the constant kids shows on tv, or the fighting between siblings, or the disrespect, or the lack of structure, or whatever it is that makes one want to send the children away. I get it, I do. However, I am not one of those people. I am not ready for school to come. Here's why: 

1. The Germs

We have lived in a perpetual bubble since summer started. Sure, we've gone places and had swim meets and play dates and park trips and had people over and gone to other people's houses. But my children haven't been in the close confines of a germ-infested classrooms where colds and coughs are passed around like candy. We've managed to stay illness-free this summer and I couldn't be more thankful. I just know that when school starts up again that the germs are going to party like it's 1999. 

2. Day-Trips

I like to go places. This summer we've taken one to two day trips each week. The kids and I have visited the beach and the zoo and farms and gardens and parks and museums and factories and amusement parks. We've learned and explored and had a blast in doing so. When school starts again, I won't have that flexibility. If I do choose to go somewhere, my oldest will be missing out. Or I'll have to take a shorter trip so that I can be back in time to pick her up to school and she will be sad that she missed it.   

3. Homework

Enough said, right? Being on the other side of the fence, so to speak, I'm actually in the no-homework camp. As a teacher, I used to believe firmly in practicing at home what you've learned in school. Now, I realize how much time my child spends at school and what little time together we have at home. I would rather we have quality family time then forced homework activities on items that are covered in school. 

4. Food 

My daughter is, shall we say, a picky eater. Packing her lunches has been a test of patience. What she eats at home she won't eat at school because it's too cold, or too hot, or too squishy.  She's still picky at home, don't get me wrong, but I know that at least I'll have an option that she will actually eat instead of wasting something that I've sent to school with her. Food waste is a huge pet peeve of mine. 

5. Sleep

During the summer I don't set any alarms unless we absolutely need to be somewhere in the morning. This is a rare occurrence. During the week I let the kids sleep in. I figure their little bodies can self-regulate how much sleep they need, and who am I to interrupt that. We still have a bedtime, I'm not that crazy, but no set wake-up time. At the beginning of summer they were waking up pretty early, but now that a couple of months have passed, they generally get up around 8. Which I think is great. However, school starts at 8:15 in the mornings, so getting up at 8 and making sure everyone is dressed and fed is not going to be realistic. 

6. Peers

I think my children are pretty sensitive. I'm okay with that. I would rather have sensitive children then calloused souls. Just sayin'. Back at school there are all kinds of characters. Some kids are nice and some like to push boundaries and others take pleasure in putting others down. I never know how my daughter will react after a day at school. I wish I could wrap her in a bubble so she's not exposed to any negative input. 

7. Sibling Bond

My children have been together all summer. They've had their fair share of quarrels and fighting over toys and crying over whose turn it is and who cheated and which toy was theirs. But they've had to learn how to work together to entertain themselves. They've had to cooperate in order to do fun projects and travel to different places. Sure, they could escape to their rooms (or be sent, if needed), but they'd have to come out and face the offended in due time. Once school starts, life will be extremely busy again and all three of them won't be together like they have been. I'm hoping their bond will still remain strong even as they lose one during the day. 

Alas, I'll know summer is really over tomorrow when I drop my daughter off at school. I'm hoping she has a good year and that summer comes soon.      

  

  

What I Do All Day

I don’t have a job. Well, not a paying job anyway. I don’t have a workplace to check in to every day, a boss to report to, or deadlines to make. I don’t have to worry about coworkers or office drama or remembering important meetings. I don’t have a dress code to follow or a commute to make. I can stay home and do whatever I want, whenever I want. I am free and my calendar is wide open.   

Just kidding, I have three children.

Let me fill you in on a bit of what I do.

First things first, my elementary school child has to be at school at a certain time every day, otherwise she’s sent to the office for a tardy slip and I consider myself reprimanded for not doing something so easy as take a child to school on time. This is where all the seasoned moms laugh hysterically, because somehow somebody can’t find a shoe or a jacket, or the children are still hungry because they refused to eat the lovingly prepared nutritious breakfast, or the homework pages have been mysteriously glued together and refuse to come apart, or the toy for show-and-tell is suddenly the worst toy ever and you need a new one RIGHT NOW, or the baby’s lovey has gotten stuck under the sofa and is wedged in tight and he is crying hysterically and won’t calm down without it, or, or, or… you get the idea. It’s a miracle we make it out of the house in the first place, let alone on time.

Then there are two children, and we run a tight ship around here. One day a week Grammy graciously comes to play while I volunteer in my elementary daughter’s classroom. This is a huge perk of being a stay-at-home mom. I get to interact with her peers and see her learning in action. She knows I have a good relationship with her teacher and is therefore held accountable for what she does in school. Plus, the younger two are building a great relationship with their grandma.  

Another morning I help teach preschool to my second daughter. A friend and I have teamed up to do a co-op, where we take turns planning lessons and adhering to a theme of the month. We rotate houses and make sure our children are receiving excellent play-based academic instruction. This takes a bit of prep and research on our part, but it also saves us the cost of preschool and ensures our children receive the quality instruction we desire.

The other weekday mornings are for extracurricular or enrichment activities for the younger two children. We attend gymnastics courses, do a Bible study, and go on field trips to places suh as a local wildlife rescue or the fire station. In other words, we don’t just sit around at home and watch tv; instead we are moving and learning.  

The mornings fly by and then it is lunchtime. We might be able to grab a quick lunch with a friend, but more often than not the children are tired and cranky at this point and it’s all I can do to get some sustenance in them before they crash for the afternoon. The toddler takes a nice nap while the preschooler can’t decide if she’s tired or not. Sometimes she falls asleep and sometimes she just plays or looks at her books. I’ll attempt to make and eat my own lunch and do damage control from the mess of the morning rush.

Then it’s time to pick up the older one from school and eat a snack. We’ll do homework or projects or play at the park or do extracurricular activities for her, such as soccer or ballet, and I’ll prep and make dinner. I love that I am able to try out new recipes and take the time to make things from scratch.

Husband will come home to eat with us and the bedtime routine will commence: bath, books, bed. If he’s not late coming home or isn’t attending a night class, he will spend the evening putting the kids to bed while I clean up from dinner.

After getting another glass of water, or finding a bug bite that’s itching, or remembering to tell us just one more thing from the day, the children drift off to sleep in their beds. This is the time for my husband and I to catch up on our day, watch a show together, or I’ll read while he preps for work.

By then it’s late and I just know somebody will wake up in the middle of the night needing something. I put myself to bed to begin again the next day.

So you see, I might not have a full-time job where I get paid, but I do actually do things during the day that provide value to my family. I am enriching the lives of my children and running a household. I am instilling morals and discipline into my children and helping to make them well-rounded productive members of society.

A Mom's Guide to Joining the Gym

A Mom’s Guide to Joining the Gym

Last month I sweet-talked my husband into purchasing a gym membership for the family. I wanted real equipment and childcare and classes, and did I mention the childcare? It was not beneficial for me to do a downward dog in my living room while the children decided I was a climbing structure. It was mortifying to push the jogging stroller through the peaceful neighborhood while the minions screamed at the top of their lungs, “Mommy, STOP!" My patience was gone after trying to sneak in squats while picking up the five millionth toy left in the middle of the kitchen floor. This mom was saying no more and heading to the gym.  

Despite my best effort (okay, my half-hearted effort. Turning on the workout video does count for points. As does adding air to the tires of the jogging stroller), I hadn’t met any of my fitness goals. I wanted, no needed, the motivating atmosphere of a real gym. I hadn’t contemplated too much about how it would all work, but I have learned a few grains of wisdom to pass along.

1. Nothing says “I work out” like the tightest leggings

After agonizing over what to wear to my workouts because nothing fit (thank-you, offspring), I waltzed into the gym wearing my loose-fitting, completely comfortable, boot cut style yoga pants that scream “Mom” from across the room. I surveyed the place and despairingly noticed all the other women wearing skin-tight leggings. No matter the shape or size or degree of fitness, all rolls, curves, and muffin tops were on display. To save yourself from my modest embarrassment, embrace yourself as you are and pour yourself into a pair. It’s the secret uniform nobody told me about.      

2. Some people are helpful

I ambitiously tried a cycling class my first week at the gym because I’m a crazy person and apparently have something to prove. Well, I proved that I cannot climb those hills and have to hang on for dear life so I don’t fall off the stationary bike. Not to mention that sitting on a regular chair was painful for a week after the class. I know they warn you about that, but it honestly was that bad. But I digress.

When I walked in early to the class one woman was already blissfully spinning away and sipping on her water bottle that I swear was full of a secret potion to make her happy to be there. She must have seen my deer-in-the-headlights stare and taken pity on me. She gently explained how to adjust the seat, the handlebars, the gear shift. Bless her heart, she was my cycling savior. After class she told me she hoped she would see me again. I told her of course.

It’s been weeks and I’ve avoided that cycle class like the salesperson you tiptoe around at the department store trying to sell you something you probably should try, but just don’t wanna. I just don’t wanna and you can’t make me.

3. Some people are not helpful

Yogalates was up next. I know, yoga-what? It’s a class that mixes yoga and Pilates. Here’s where I loftily educate you about how they complement each other beautifully, like sipping an exotic drink while watching a glorious sunrise over the Mediterranean. Honestly, I have no clue. What I do know is that I was barefoot, a giant exercise ball was involved, and I came out of there drenched in sweat with sore muscles shaking. You know, like birth but without the baby.    

Going in, I had completed some research. By research, I mean I reasoned that a yoga mat would be needed because the name of the class had the word “yoga” in it. I stepped into the room, hoping one of the ladies looking my direction would give me some guidance on where to find the mats. Nope, they had their Zen faces on (Zen is a yoga word, right?), watching to see what I would do next.

When I think of storing a yoga mat, I think of a thin mat rolled up into a nice cinnamon bun roll with a swirling spiral on the outside. During meditation, I planned to visualize an ooey, gooey, flaky goodness dripping with icing and smell the overpowering scent of sickly sweet cinnamon and sugar. Well, I wasn’t going to be able to do that if I couldn’t find the actual yoga roll. I mean, mat.

The class was about to start and I still had not found a stack of rolls. I mustered up the courage to walk to the nearest person and inquired about the mats. She glared at me like I was crazy and pointed behind her to the mats noticeably hanging on a rack. Not rolled up in the least. I unhooked one and placed it on the floor as far off to the side as I could get. Needless to say, I was unable to focus on my cinnamon roll due to all the weight-lifting and stretching and falling off the exercise ball.

4. Disinfecting is a religion

The gym is a dirty, dirty place and I am a clean, clean person. People are sweating and dripping and grunting and coughing and sneezing and sharing all kinds of germs. Who knows what kinds of bacteria they come in with, or what rare, silent diseases they might be transmitting. This isn’t my living room where I know the last time I mopped the floor (umm, maybe two weeks ago?), or what that liquid spill is over there (best guess is water from the toilet that my toddler spilled after dipping his sock). This is a public place where people from all walks of life come and secrete liquid pieces of themselves through their pores. I know, it grosses me out.

To combat this problem, the gym stocks spray bottles of a mystical substance they call disinfectant. These bottles, complete with rags to use, are placed next to the doorways, the machines, and hung along the walls of the rooms. My best word of advice is to use it. Spray those machines down before and after you use them. Feel free to spray yourself down while you’re at it. Take a bath in it if you want. But whatever you do, read the signs on the machines first. The ones that say, “DO NOT SPRAY MACHINES.” Instead, you’re supposed to spray the rag, then wipe the machine down. If you spray the machine itself, you’ll ruin it for the rest of the gym-goers. You do not want to make a healthy, fit person mad. Just keep yourself safe, and be kind to the person after you. They’ll thank you for not sharing your rare case of bacteria-itis. I know I do.

5. It’s worth it

In case you couldn’t tell, I’m not quite a professional gym person. Gym-Goer? Gym-Nut? Healthy person? Whatever, you get the point. One day soon you’ll see me on the cover of Gym Magazine (or whatever the healthy gym magazines are called. I wouldn’t know). I’ve been at this thing for a little over a month, but already I feel so much better about myself. I can walk around this earth and tell people I go to the gym and see their faces look me up and down in amazement. Yep, I’m that impressive.

I’m still the mom in outdated boot cut yoga pants, but I’m stronger and more confident. I know how to find the yoga mats and the disinfectant. I am ready to help anyone I see with the “deer-in-the-headlights” look.

Just don’t ask me about the weights. Or the contraptions with the ropes. Or anything to do with swimming. Or the difference between the sauna and the steam room. Other than that, I’m an expert, promise. I will be a helpful person and smile and wave and show you around if I see you walk in looking a little timid.

What’s that? My name is being called? Better go get the children from the magical land of happy adults 

My Thoughts on Gyms

Recently, a good friend of mine gifted me a seven-day pass to her gym. To say I was surprised when I received the phone call from the gym person explaining that I was invited to come try it out, is an understatement. You see, gyms have never been on my list of places I ever want to visit, and I’ve been pretty vocal about it according to my husband.  

CC Image courtesy of The Library of Virginia on Flickr

First of all, they cost money. If you know me even just the tiniest bit, you know I’m quite the cheapskate. In the grand scheme of things, the cost of the monthly gym membership can buy a lot of coffee. Or sponsor sports for the children. Or contribute to our vacation fund. Or go toward a nice date night. Or here’s a wacky thought-save the money. It was just too much for my frugal self to justify.

Secondly, one can get in shape perfectly fine without all that fancy equipment. Want to jog? Push the kids in the stroller around the block. Need to lift weights? Use soup cans from the pantry. Even pesky pull-ups and lunges can be done at the local park (don’t be a creep, though, and be sure to wait for a time when less children are present).

But what about those fun classes that the gym offers? You might ask. Why hello, OnDemand television. You don’t even need to get dressed to do a workout program in front of the television. Just roll out of bed, hit a few buttons on the remote, and you’re set. You can customize by time, workout type, or just sit there and scroll through while you imagine yourself growing healthier by the second.

If OnDemand isn’t your thing, we have this amazing invention called the internet. With that comes YouTube. Park yourself in front of the computer and work that body. There are a plethora of workouts to choose from on the internet, many for free of charge. If you happen to find something that asks you to pay, just keep searching. Your cheap self will thank you later.

There are also a ton of apps available to download on your phone that will give you a daily workout routine. Prop your phone up to view, squint your eyes for a better view, and copy that instructor to your heart's content. You can also rewind if the instructor goes too fast or does some type of crazy move you couldn’t quite copy. You can’t really rewind the instructor at the gym, now can you?

Of course I can’t forget to mention the self-conscious factor. I’m not gonna lie, I freak out a bit at the thought of someone watching me sweat and grunt in public. No thank-you. I would rather pretend to be put together (as much as a mom of three young children can be), when you see me out of the house.

Then there’s the comparison game. Watching the fit 90-year-old great-grandma in the best shape of her life while she conquers spin class makes me think I have a problem if I can’t even lift my butt off the seat. Or the guy with muscles benching five times his body weight. You go, buddy, but that is some serious stuff and a bit too intimidating for me.

Oh yes, intimidation. All the machines with their fancy cables and wires and imposing heavy weights that slide and pull and push and turn. I have no clue how to use any of that and I don’t want to look like an idiot when I accidentally make the whole thing topple over or end up sitting on something when my head was really supposed to fit in that spot. I’d like to keep my dignity, thank you very much.  

Another issue- and this is a big one for me as well-germs. The bacteria that might be breeding in that hot, sweat-laden cesspool of human secretions just grosses me out. I know they sanitize equipment and all that, but some germs are sneaky. I don’t want to walk away with MRSA or some other mutated virus having snuck in through a missed spot on the gym floor.     

To conclude my story, I did end up using the free pass for the week. Hello, it was FREE! And would you know, I did convince my husband to sign the entire family up for the monthly membership. I know, what was I thinking? But the reason that won me over, that conquered all fears of money-wasting and toppled my arguments of convenience and inferiority and overcame the dreaded avoidance of all germs, was….

Childcare.

Consider me a convert now.