Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

To the Mom Shaming Your Kid on Facebook

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I fell asleep last night with peace in my heart and a bit of pride for the fact that my son was smiling as he kissed me goodnight, even though he had been crying when we first laid down to say our bedtime prayers. I mean, I knew the Holy Spirit had a lot to do with his change in demeanor, especially following our heartfelt intercession, but yeah, a lot of me felt good for myself too. I felt like a good mom. Which was awesome, since I feel like I fail at it on the daily!

A large majority of the commentary you’ll see about parenting teens and preteens champions tough love. It states that kids today need to toughen up, that they need more discipline, and that they need to face the harsh realities of this world so they can be high-functioning, productive adults. I get it. I am a Gen-X’er, after all. A latch key kid. The generation that had zero hand-holding while we transversed the neighborhood or woods without supervision. I’m tough! I also thank God I’m alive when I think back at the stupid stuff I did that almost got me killed, that my parents were clueless about. But alas, this isn’t a blog about the pros and/or cons of helicopter parenting. It’s about being a good parent. So what is that exactly?

Yes, it’s disciple. It’s teaching your children to respect authority, to listen, and to learn from their mistakes. To work hard earn their reward. It’s provision and meeting their physical needs. Yet, it’s so much more. If I had to sum it up with one word it would be pretty easy. I’d base it upon the best role model father I know. God, My Father. So, who is God?

God is so many attributes rolled into one, but the one that stands out to me as His daughter is love. And that’s what I thought of last night after holding my twelve year old.

The Lord said, “it matters to you because it matters to him. That’s how I love you.”

My son had been working for days on a digital art project, and as he neared completion his program screamed for more storage capacity. In a rush to delete the unwanted stuff and make room, he accidentally deleted his project. He had not saved it. It was gone forever. Even The Cloud couldn’t help. He tried to put on a brave face, but I could tell he was disappointed to have lost all that time and effort because of a mistake.

I was at a crossroads. I could say, “I bet you learned your lesson about hitting save!”

I could state what was obvious to me. “It’s just a drawing. Get over it! Do another!”

Or, I could walk in the fruits of the Spirit, the model my Father in Heaven gave through His Son. Patience, kindness, gentleness, love. I could allow him to cry, to let it out. I could hold him, listen, offer advice, and love him through the disappointment that was a big deal to him at the time.

Or, I could post a picture of him crying and upload it to Facebook, I talking about how this generation needs to grow a backbone, learn responsibility, and work hard for the things they want!

Maybe I’m being a little over the top with my particular scenario, but sadly I see pretty similar stuff a bit too often for my taste. I see it over and over, these posts where a mom shames their child publicly on social media, toting the virtues of making your kid learn the hard way. I just don’t believe that’s the way.

A majority of the time it is parents who claim Christianity as a basis of their life that are the promoters of tough love, but I don’t see that Christ walked that way. God certainly isn’t up there punishing us for our missteps. He allows us to fall to the consequences of our own stupid actions, but He never puts us to shame. That’s the other guy. He’s the one who forgives us, the Dad who picks us up, kisses the booboo, and holds us tight, counting our tears. He’s the one who took all our mistakes on His own back, paying for them in blood, and certainly didn’t put ‘em up on a sign in the public square to get likes and shares from the angels.

When your child messes up, you can lovingly guide them to the truth, the consequences of their actions, and the way back to the goal at hand, or you can let them learn their lesson on their own. Sadly, years down the road, the lesson they may have learned is a skewed version of what a father/mother should be. They’ll carry that version into many aspects of their life, such as how they see the Father Heart of God, how they parent themselves, and how they deal with shame and self-doubt when they fail as an adult.

I want my children to learn grace! I want them to know loving kindness, compassion, mercy, and confidence that they can move forward in imperfection, growing as they go. They can learn from mistakes (because they will, without an “I told you so”), but not feel like those mistakes define them. But most of all, I want to model the love I see in Him. And I just don’t think social media shaming is it.

What Do I Have to Be Thankful For?!

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I baste the bird, liquid butter with bits of garlic poured out over the bulging breasts of our Thanksgiving turkey. My eyes burn as I go about the task, gritty from lack of sleep after sitting in the psych hold of the local ER all night, but more so still on fire after so many torrents of tears spent. Rivers of tears over driving to the hospital with my child, but leaving without them.

Thanksgiving, a time to reflect on the gifts we have been given. Opting to celebrate the holiday early since I’d spend the actual day at work, I had planned to put the turkey in the oven at 2am. But it turns out that at 2am I was tossing and turning in a rigid recliner pulled alongside my son’s stretcher, wrapping a blanket tighter around my ears to cushion the sound of nurses’ laughter or the cursing screams from the head-banging, combative neighbor next door.

How many times have I cried to the Lord, “am I doing the right thing? Give me wisdom!”

I slide the buttery bird back in its heated cave. We have to eat, right?! The planned dinner, with side dishes still sitting at the ready in the refrigerator, prepped the preceding night, before I knew what lay ahead. What were we actually celebrating, anyway?!

In the lone room of the child and adolescent inpatient wing, sitting in an abnormally large, yet childlike chair, I wept into my wrinkled sweatshirt while they searched my baby in another room for hidden objects that could cause self harm. I cried out to my inner thoughts, “please tell me I’m doing the right thing!”

Today could have started very differently, it occurred then to me. I wasn’t simply thinking about an appetizing spread ready on the dining room table by noon. I was thinking of trying to wake my son to eat, but instead of being greeted by his sleepy grumbles, being confronted with his cold, blue flesh. That is how today could have started.

Instead… instead, the Holy Spirit had prompted him to come to me.

“I have to tell you something,” he said, after sitting criss-cross, apple sauce on the bathroom floor, “but I’m afraid it will make you sad.”

“You can tell me anything!”

Thankfully, he did.

What a week it’s been. Last week brought frightening messages while I worked, of feeling disconnected and unreal, a stranger in another’s body. Walking out in the cold rain just to feel something, anything.

Two nights ago brought self-harm, six horizontal cuts on his left, inner calf, driven to “scratch a nagging itch” that refused to abate until the damage was done.

I’ve always considered us blessed that Noah feels so comfortable coming to us about everything, but even I was surprised by the extremely detailed plan of suicide he had concocted, and shared with me in the bright lights of our bathroom last night. He had planned on waiting until we were all asleep, ensuring we would be none the wiser until finding his body this morning.

I pull the browning bird out at determined intervals, coating its skin with flavorful moisture. What do I have to be thankful for?! As I prepare a meal of Thanksgiving, sans my firstborn present. He is not here, but he will be.

He is not at the table today, but he will be for all the tomorrows. My baby is alive, and after facing the plan to end Thanksgivings forever, and Christmases to boot, he decided to stay. To reach out for a lifeline, to feel better, to cling to that thread of hope that must still be there somewhere. I have a lot to be thankful for.

It didn’t feel that way as I left him at the hospital. He cried, “don’t leave me,” and I probably would not have had the staff not ushered me away. Gosh, y’all, this is hard. It’s hard to spend a year trying to pull your baby out of darkness, and finally realizing you cannot do it alone. It’s hard trying to do your best, to make the right decisions, to follow the advice of the many mental healthcare professionals invested in your child’s future, yet still feeling like a piece of your innermost being is lost in a dark forest of sadness and dismay. Can I leave breadcrumbs to bring him back? Is there a way back to the happy child I remember? Can I feel peace amidst so much turmoil? Maybe that’s the real breadcrumbs in the stuffing we will eat. Peace knowing that we are not alone.

In fact, that is the last thing I whispered to Noah before I had to leave, “you are not alone.”

I Cried in the Shower Today

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Have you ever cried so hard it hurts? I’m talking about that deep burn in your throat that reaches all the way to your heart and back, only finding escape from the flames via hot, molten tears. That was me, sitting in my shower, somehow enjoying the emotion, yet begging it to simmer down before I hyperventilated. The last thing I needed was my husband to run into the bathroom, following an echoing thump, and find me slumped naked in the billowing steam. So, I tried to qualm my cries, yet the overflow of emotion erupted again, a fresh cascade of tears across my already wet face.

We had recently gone to a child’s birthday party, and I guess that’s where the story of tears started. My daughters were excited to see an old friend, and even opted to miss dance and voice lessons for the occasion. We had shopped excitedly for a present, each child contributing to the basket before making a final selection. They had chosen the outfits they would wear, and had asked me each and every day leading up to the event, “how much longer until the party?”

So, what happened?!

We had arrived to the gathering a little after its commencement, and already swarms of girls and boys bolted along the sandy beachfront. The birthday girl came running towards my oldest, screeching her name with excitement, enveloping her in a hug.

And my girl stood there awkwardly stiff, having trouble accepting the embrace. I heard Stephanie Tanner in my head proclaim, “how rude!”

Our awkward entrance continued. I looked around at my girls standing on the periphery of the group, looking shy, uncertain, and uncomfortable.

I encouraged them to “go and play.”

Yet, they kept coming back, and sitting on the outskirts, as if unsure of exactly how to go play. It didn’t make sense. These were their friends, and sure there were lots of other children they didn’t know, but my childhood wallflower self silently screamed, “go, be a part of the group!”

Yep, I had been that awkward kid in school, unsure how to act in social settings, sitting on the outside looking in. I had always done better one on one, a single bestie, and that trend had followed me my whole life.

“It’s Covid,” I thought.

Over a year of telling your children to stay away from other kids had surely stunted their social growth I hypothesized, and while I’m sure that’s true, it didn’t explain the fact that my tween had refused to bring her swimsuit, refused to wear shorts, and I had to buy her a baseball cap just to keep her from wearing a winter boggin pulled down over her head. Was that just a phase? Y’all, parenting is hard.

She had headphones in her ears, so she wouldn’t have to listen to the voices of others, and sunglasses because the sun hurt her vampire eyes. I’m sure it had nothing to do with being holed up in her dark room most of the time (insert tired mommy sigh).

I texted my spouse, “our kids have no idea how to act in a large group.”

I was questioning my own parenting skills, imagining all the ways I was messing up my kiddos, and trying not to worry I might be creating an ax murderer. Just kidding. Kinda.

My husband quickly replied, “uhhh, neither do their parents.”

Oh Lord, my husband and I were closet introverts. We loved people, and even flourished in one on one relationships, but put us in a group setting, and our left eye started to twitch. We hated crowds and avoided going places on weekends like the plague. We were happy to sit at home, and neither of us had the desire to go out with friends to blow off steam. We liked the bed, dinner and a movie, quiet time, and no expectations. His words made sense.

But still, I worried about my babies.

And that’s what I talked to God about in the shower. I handed Him my worries and my babies, listening to the counsel of the Holy Spirit. At some point in our conversation He brought me a vision of a flower in a field. Like the sunflowers we had grown last year, this flower tilted its head towards the light, and the light shown on its face, giving it new life.

The sun set and darkness surrounded the solitary plant. From above came a thermal blanket, like the kind a gardener would use to protect his prize winning roses from a spring frost. I knew at that moment, that was how God covered me and my family.

Each flower in His garden was unique, each created and cultivated to be its own creation, for His glory and kingdom purposes. His light illuminated and fed each one as it turned its face to Him, and He protected them from dark and cold places.

I felt the Lord speak to me, “nothing is by accident. I created each of your children according to my giftings. Nothing can take away from that. Nor does it need to be.”

I recognized that perhaps my children were different than the average child. Each one had nuances, sensitivities, or gifts that made them unique. I had grown up feeling like a square peg, longing to fit into a world I couldn’t seem to become comfortable being a part of. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized God created me square, with a square hole in mind for me. After all, squares make the best block for building God’s Kingdom. I wanted my girls to feel alive and beautiful in their uniqueness, and I realized that started with me not expecting them to fit into standard social norms. They were created for more than that. I didn’t need to worry so much as trust. And while there was nothing wrong with noticing peculiarities, or even learning more about those particular social styles, making a diagnosis or treatment plan if necessary, the bottom line was they were beautiful flowers in God’s garden, perfect in their specific design. Even if that made group events a little cringe worthy.

So, why did I cry? Gratitude, I suppose. What the world calls wounded, God calls blessed. What society would view as imperfect, He sets apart. And best of all, His light and love never fail. His covering persists, through every season, even the ones of drought and doubt. I’m still growing. My girls are too. I suppose, sometimes it’s the tears of gratefulness and joy that water the soil best.

How to Survive Raising Tweens

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I was driving home from work when suddenly my message notifications chimed, and stamped across the screen I saw the words, “I wish I had Wifi so you could come get me.”

At the stoplight I read the messages that followed:

“Mom I feel uncomfortable here I want to go home”

“I’m scared of all these people.”

My heart did that Momma dip, where it falls from your chest, into your stomach, with the weight of concern for your child. I quickly realized she could have typed these words hours ago, anytime really, over the last 8 hours. My eleven year old didn’t have a phone of her own, but I sometimes let her borrow my old one. With it, she could message me at work through a child’s messaging app, if Wifi was available. That day, I knew she had taken my phone to an acting class she attended, so she could video a musical number they were performing.

My only thought (after the jumble of cryptically delayed pleas) was, oh, dear… What happened?!

Y’all, they had been mean to her! Some kids in this class had ganged together and made fun of her. The song they had chosen for their mock music video had cursing, and Chloe had decided she wasn’t going to lip sync the curse words like they wanted. She sat the video out! Then, I discovered, as some of her classmates (many older, since the class wasn’t divided by age groups) had been using cuss words in their regular conversations, she asked them to stop. Even going so far as to ask the teacher to tell the group to stop cussing.

Ouch.

My teen years flew through my mind.

Now, let me just say, we’ve explained to our children that this world contains all different types of people, and they are all precious in the eyes of God. We’ve explained that different families have different values, and just because our family chooses not to do, for our own reasons, certain things, that doesn’t mean it’s bad for other families. They understand that they may not see alcohol in their parent’s hands or hear curses from our mouths (except for the occasional slip, wink, wink), but that doesn’t mean people who choose to do differently are bad, or more importantly, that we are morally better.

We have explained these things, but still, I suppose since she doesn’t hear them from home, it makes her uncomfortable. And she let that be known. And some kids bullied her for it. And… it hurt my momma heart for her. Sigh.

I remember being the different kid in school. The weirdo, the outcast, the subject of much bullying. I never wanted that for my babies. I didn’t want them to experience being the outcast, at a young and emotional age, when self worth was still emerging, but more than that I didn’t want them to feel pressured to try and fit in with the “cool kids.” I had experienced that rollercoaster growing up too. So, it’s like, I was proud of her for being different, and for sticking to her principles, but it also hurt me that she had to experience the ridicule of it.

“It makes me not want to talk to anybody outside of my family,” she had confessed during our conversation.

I could understand that. There were mean people in this world. As a homeschooled kid, only ever being around cousins, church friends, or in Christian Co-op classes, she had not really had to face this yet. We talked a long time about the mean people out there, why they’re mean, and how we love them anyway. We talked about how despite the mean people, you still sought the kind ones, because they were out there too, and friendships of that caliber were worth digging for. I think she got it.

In a way, it was really good for her to experience life outside our safe bubble, something I knew she needed. Yet still, my mommy heart worried. As we laid in bed later that night, saying our prayers together, it struck me…

God was listening!

I mean, of course He was listening. I knew that! But the events of the day reminded me on a deeper level of His hand in the life of my children. Every single day I prayed for my babies. I prayed for God to protect them and keep them healthy, of course, but I also prayed for their relationship with Him. Every night we prayed together that they would hear God’s voice and feel His presence. That they would know they’re never alone. As Chloe grew older I prayed the Lord would guide her, give her wisdom and discernment for His will. I prayed for God to give me and my husband those things as we attempt to parent well.

God was listening. He was answering our prayers, and His Holy Spirit led her each day.

Y’all, this gave me great comfort. I guess my heart will still worry for her feelings, and my mind will still become anxious over how she will transverse this world with all its many different people, but I will also have peace knowing we are not alone in parenting our daughters. Even throughout the emotional tween years, and later the crazy teen years (I’ll probably need to re-read this post at that point). And with His Shalom Peace I can survive this parenting journey.

It’s hard not to worry for your children as a Christian parent. You know that their still-developing, immature mind cannot grasp the truth of the spiritual matters that give you peace. They’re not there yet. But then I’m reminded that God is still present, walking them through their budding relationship with Him. I think of John the Baptist, leaping with the joy of the Holy Spirit, while still in His mother’s womb, and I understand that same Spirit is with my babies too. Today, I’ll take it. And I’ll take it tomorrow. I’ll take all the help I can get as I learn more how to parent each and every day.

Don’t Underestimate the Significance of Your Calling as a Parent

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I fell asleep a little earlier than usual last night. After a long and stressful day at work, I was beat. I said bedtime prayers individually with each of my daughters, and then I fell asleep before my head even settled on the pillow. A couple of hours later I woke suddenly, and keeping quiet I gazed upon my eleven year old preparing for bed. I watched in a sleepy joy while she read from a kid’s devotional book I had bought for her, and then while she proceeded to read from her Bible. I fell back asleep, contentment carrying me to dreamland.

My husband and I recently had a conversation about the amazing plan God must have for one of our children. How else could we explain the course our lives had taken?! We both carried pasts that were the whispers in church circles. An addict and alcoholic having a baby?! But God’s Grace had won. I tried to commit suicide by hanging as a child, but the poorly constructed noose didn’t work. My husband had a horrific car wreck as a young man, unrestrained, that left him without front teeth, but somehow no other injuries. When he awoke in the wreckage, he had been misplaced from the crushed-in driver’s seat, to the less impacted passenger side. And these are just a couple of our miraculous survival stories. Our past problems caused us to live individual, high-risk lifestyles, but in His mercy we were protected from our own stupidity.

As a teenager, new to the faith, I had known Ben was going to be my husband. I wasn’t very confident yet in my ability to hear God’s voice, but I never doubted he was the one. The problems and roadblocks of the world would separate us. For ten years, even! But somehow what God meant to place together, no man could keep apart. In my thirties, I finally married the man I knew at nineteen God had for me.

I could drone on and on how I believe my current path was meant to be, but I’ll spare you any further details. The point is, I have seen the hand of God in my life time and time again. So has my spouse. We consider each of our children a gift from God, and we have no doubt that the Lord has wonderful plans for their lives.

My husband used to own his own business, and he even built rockets once upon a time. But during this season, he is a homemaker. He homeschools our children and does about a billion other important tasks at home, while I serve in the role of primary and sole breadwinner. Albeit untraditional, this works wonderfully for our family. I think some men might tend to feel unfulfilled in their role as a stay-at-home dad. Not simply because society has deemed it a woman’s place over the years, but because, let’s face it; full-time parenting is hard! I’ve been in his position, and it’s crazy, hectic homeschooling multiple young ones. There’s one thing that he’s done that makes it fit him so much better than it did me, though. He understands his calling.

One day, a couple of years ago, my husband commented, “God told me today that what I’m doing is important.”

As simple as that. The encouragement of the Holy Spirit gave my man peace and purpose. We knew that financially we were doing what made sense, but budget balancing won’t fill your heart with purpose. The Spirit drives my spouse to parent well, and his determination and commitment are seen in the fruit of our babies.

It’s easy to see parenting as a chore. It’s work! It’s the hardest job you’ll ever love. It’s moments of ridiculous frustration mixed with moments of surpassing joy. It’s a love/hate relationship that you’d never let go. It’s the thing you need a break from, but also the thing you miss the second it’s gone. It’s a journey of perseverance, a practice in patience, and somehow humbling to how little we know. What we tend to forget, is that it’s also a great task for the Kingdom of God. As parents, we hold in our hands the ability to mend, but also to break. We have to be intentional to keep the damage to a minimum, and passionate to cultivate a loving environment of acceptance and success. We love our children as Jesus loved us; not for what we receive in return. The greatest gift we can give our babies is the heart of Jesus. This unconditional love that carries the fruits of the Spirit. Thankfully, perfection isn’t required, just the ability to show them the perfection that exists in Jesus, and that is there for their taking within them, as His perfect love resides there. This is the calling.

My husband takes seriously his calling, and it’s something I remind myself of often also. I mentioned in the beginning my girl reading her Bible and seeking God’s truth. This is something we taught! I don’t say that in a prideful way, for I know it’s only the true work of the Holy Spirit that keeps her doing it when the lights go down and she doesn’t know her parents are watching. That’s what truly gave my heart joy. She was able to experience the peace that comes from the Lord. We set up the practice, and we modeled the behavior, and the rest God took and ran with.

Children can be taught anything. They can be modeled hate. Abusive marriages often arise from watching abusive parents. Racism is engrained, and a false doctrine of religious works can be given precedent over the grace of God. You can even “scare the hell” out of your children by fire and brimstone, if you so choose, but when the lights go out at night, it’s the peace of abiding in Him that will persevere. That’s the calling, and it’s not an insignificant one.

It’s no secret that people have taken notice of the state of our world lately. I can hardly spend a few minutes on social media before seeing the hopelessness that persists because of the current, social climate. All I can think lately is, it’s up to me. Unless Jesus comes soon, the future is my children. It’s your children. The Bible tells a parable of ten virgins who had to keep their lamps lit as they waited on the bridegroom. Half let their oil run out and their light diminish. When the bridegroom came, only those who had remained prepared were rewarded. We are the ten ladies. The coming of Jesus is our groom. We don’t know exactly when He’ll return. It might not be in our lifetime. Does that mean our light goes out when we die? No! We keep our light burning through the oil of our children. The light of Jesus shines to future generations through the preparation we make as parents. The hope of the future lives in the loving light they carry to their own children. When He comes, no matter when, I want my lamp to still be burning for His return. That is the calling. It’s one we all share.

Your Child’s Education Isn’t Important!

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Your child’s education isn’t important!

Woah, stop the presses. Isn’t your child’s education the most important thing there is?! Well, while I’ll agree (as a strong, college educated professional) that education is important, I believe that as a society as a whole we have placed far too much value on it. So it might be better to describe it this way.

Your child’s education isn’t as important as you think.

I was watching TV with my daughters while on vacation when a particular commercial came on the screen. I won’t state the specific company, but it was a well-known educational app that was aimed towards helping children to learn. In fact, once upon a time I subscribed to this educational app for kids. I still thought it was great and really put together well. Props, you know? But the commercial? I always had a problem with them. They fed into the worried parental mind that exists so readily today.

This particular mindset of the modern parent said, “is my child up to speed?”

It was a mindset that was seeped in comparison and anxiety.

It said, “is my child learning fast enough? Are they smart enough? Are they going to be behind?”

So, back to the commercial. This particular one showed an interview with a once-panicked mom.

She states happily, “we were so worried Billy was falling behind! But now he’s learning by leaps and bounds!”

Leaps and bounds. The camera switched over to little Billy playing happily with his tablet. He looked to be about two years old. The only leaping he needed to do was over mud puddles. And the only bounding truly required was towards his favorite playground. He was a toddler, preschooler at the most, and his parents were causing undue anxiety for not only him, but themselves when they kept sweating if a child who couldn’t yet tie his shoes recognized every letter of the alphabet and what sound they made. Just my opinion.

I’ve been there, you see. I’ve been that worried parent, and I did it long enough to come out the other side wiser and more relaxed. I still have a lot to learn about parenting, and I don’t consider myself the know-all, be-all. But my kids are pretty darn happy. That’s good enough for me.

Have you ever noticed how when you rush about trying to get out the door on time that your children fall apart? It’s that way with most things when you push a child beyond what is possible or what they’re ready to handle. I look back at many afternoons at the table, my daughter crying, and me feeling like a terrible mom!

I guess I started to realize the error of my ways a few years ago. I was so anxious about it all. My daughter was in first grade, and she couldn’t read! I mean, she could read her sight words and trudge through some Dr. Suess, but when it came to picking up a book and simply reading without the painful phonics and stumbling pauses, she wasn’t there yet.

Her cousin could read!

Other kids in her homeschool group could read.

It was me, most likely. I was messing my kid up!

As a homeschooling mother, I worried I wasn’t giving my child what she needed. I worried I wasn’t preparing her adequately for the future. I worried it was my fault she couldn’t read!

I pushed harder. She fell apart easier.

School days were often painful, and I realized my child hated reading.

As an avid reader, and an even more passionate writer, the thought of my own flesh and blood not being a book worm like mommy was especially painful. She loved her some science, which my medical field self was proud of, and she zipped through math better than I ever could, but the reading. Painful. Painfully behind.

I sat at the kitchen table going over curriculum, lessons plans, and catalogs for the upcoming school year, and at that moment I realized I was pushing my oldest child too hard. She wasn’t ready to move forward to the next grade. She hadn’t met the milestones she should for reading. Sometimes she hit the mark every time, but it wasn’t consistent. I felt in my honest heart that I needed to hold her back a year.

Y’all, I was crushed. She didn’t care. I explained she would be repeating a grade, and I let her know that her cousin (the same age by a week) would be moving ahead of her. She was fine with it. I slowly followed suit.

See, I thought it was my fault. I thought she was behind. I had set in my mind the particular path her learning should take, and anything other than that seemed like an epic fail!

We live in a world that shows commercials for teaching your baby to read. Ads tote the importance of your child being ahead, and certainly not behind. They talk a lot about ensuring your child’s successful future, as if when they learn their ABC’s will determine if they get into Harvard.

Well, here’s the truth of it. Billy may not get into Harvard. In fact, Billy may not want to go to Harvard. He may not want to attend college at all. And that’s okay! We have fewer tradesmen and blue collar workers than ever before because society has placed such a value on higher education, forgetting that it takes all kinds to make the world go round.

Want to hear the craziest part?! My child wasn’t behind. The only reason she was even in the grade she was in was because I enrolled her in it. As a homeschooling parent I had started her Pre-K early. We had moved on to Kindergarten before her friends in our neighborhood who were the same age. If she had gone to public school she would not have been able to attend Kindergarten when she did, but I had been so excited and determined to teach her. And that’s fine and dandy! But I had to know when to throttle down, when to push her, when to relax and take a breath. I look back now and wish I had that time back. I wish we had played more with toys in the floor, spent more time cuddling and giggling, and less time making her sit at a table and learn how to count to twenty before she could even pronounce the number correctly.

The world she was growing up in said she needed to read by five, but it said nothing of yes ma’am or no sir.

The world she was growing up in said she needed to be involved in as many extracurricular activities as possible to build character, teamwork, and a competitive spirit. It said nothing about the benefit of time with mom and dad, or how much knowledge could be gleaned from sitting on the porch shelling peas with grandma.

The world she was growing up in said the honor roll was a must, but said very little about befriending the quiet girl sitting on the bus alone.

The world we were living in said I was a failure as a parent if my child didn’t keep the same pace as the majority. It said there was only one way to learn, one style, one setting, and one ruler to measure everyone’s success by. It said nothing of individuality, special gifting, unique talent, or how the planet could keep spinning even if your offspring weren’t number one at absolutely everything!

Billy could fall down and be okay.

Billy could make straight A’s, but be a bully.

Billy could hate homework, but still be successful in life.

Sally could have trouble learning to read, but create a symphony that brought people to tears.

Sally could flunk math and still lead a productive, happy life!

Good grades didn’t predict your future, but being a decent human being said a lot.

Being first place wouldn’t earn you a wonderful life, but putting yourself last would lead to a fulfilling one. Do you know what I mean by that?

We have to teach our children how to be kind, love others, and serve as Jesus did. Heck, He told His followers to drop their nets, leave their jobs, give away their gold, and even go on their journeys without a bag packed. He didn’t plan for a perfect future for them, but He did give them the tools to build up an everlasting treasure in Heaven. He showed them that kindness was cool, being last put you first, and hanging with the outcasts was where it was truly at! I wanna teach my kids that!

You know what? My daughter reads beautifully now, and learning how a little behind the average age didn’t harm her a bit. I had to learn to settle myself and not place too much stress on either of us. I had to realize what’s important in life and what’s not. The world will tell you a lot of things are must-haves and have-to-be dones, but nothing is more important than relationships with those around us and learning to be a better person tomorrow than you were today.

I am a college educated professional, and I make really good money. I have so many options with my career, and I could live anywhere in the country. There’s tons of room for growth, promotional potential, and retirement benefits. My education allows me a lot of freedom in my life, and I think that’s awesome. But it’s not the most important thing.

I could have the highest degree possible for my vocation, and I could have obtained the highest GPA in my graduating class. I could have attended the most prestigious program out there, and have a billion certifications behind my name. I could keep my educational level ever-growing, learning everything I could possibly know about my changing field, but it would mean absolutely nothing if I was a jerk.

I am a successful nurse because I treat my patients like people rather than just a number or diagnosis. My patients love me because I consider my job a privilege to serve mankind. I do well in my career because I’m a good team player, I have a positive attitude, and I’m easygoing in what is a difficult, changing environment. Yeah, I needed the degree to get me to the bedside, but it’s my love for people that keeps me there and happy. I don’t want to be that person who hates their job, and I don’t want my children to be that person either.

You’ve seen technology. The world could be run by robots if we wanted, but one thing prevents that. Love. We need it to make the world go round. We need humanity. We need a smile. Everyone hates self checkout at Walmart because they want the friendly checker to say hello. We need more friendly hellos.

We need more people who love what they do.

We need more people who are passionate about one another, about helping the planet move forward in harmony. We’ve become a selfish place to live. We cut line, cheat, and win by whatever means necessary. We think that will bring happiness. A bigger degree, a more successful career, a fatter bank account, a larger home. Surely these things will bring us happiness! We spend so much time running faster for something better that by the end of our lives we lay there exhausted wondering where the time went. When did the kids grow up? Why don’t they ever come to visit? We sank all that money into our savings account, we built up that retirement cushion, but now that the time has come, no one is there to enjoy it with us. We’re alone. A bunch of highly educated, loners with a huge, extremely quiet home. Where’s the laughter gone?

Ahh, man, I could go on with this forever, but if you’re not getting it by now then I don’t know if you will. But I hope you do, before it’s too late. When you’re on your deathbed it won’t be Billy’s great grasp of phonics that flashes before your eyes. It will be all the lost time with those you loved, all the missed opportunities to build a treasure for yourself and your family beyond this world. It will be regret. And you will finally see that all the things you spent so much time worrying about were meaningless.

When Did We Stop Letting Kids Be Kids?

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I know I’m not the first person to have taken notice of how much the education system has changed over the past 10-20 years. Most people within my age bracket, who grew up in the 1970’s and 1980’s, can see a huge shift from how things were when they were little compared to how they are now. I can recall being in kindergarten in California very well. I got out at noon, and I learned how to tie my shoes. We took naps and played with clay. We got to have fun, be creative, and learn how to treat others. We were allowed to be normal five year olds. My question is, is that changing?

I’ll be the first to admit I’m no expert on the public school system at this current time. I do not have my children enrolled in the public school system so I can not rely on personal experiences. What I can rely on is observation of friends whose children are. So this isn’t written from any expert platform, but rather simply an opinion based on interactions with my parenting peers. It’s also not a dig at the public school system in particular. This is actually my concerns over public mindset nowadays. When did we stop allowing kids to be kids? And when did we start expecting more from children than they are developmentally capable of achieving?

Over the past five years or so, and since becoming a parent myself over seven years ago, I’ve noticed the concerns voiced of other mothers around me. I see their questions, their searching for camaraderie and advice, their fears over if they’re doing it right, doing right by their children, and making certain their child can measure up to the standards set by the tribe at large.

I see and hear conversations like:

“Does anyone know what my preschooler needs to know before they start school?”

“My daughter never went to pre-K! Is she going to be terribly far behind?!”

“Looking for a good learning app for my two year old. What do you recommend?”

“Is ABC Mouse worth the money per month?”

“What kind of books can I buy for my four year old to get him ready for school?”

“My five year old can’t read! What are we gonna do? Are they gonna hold her back?!”

“What’s the best pre-k program out there? Who do you recommend?”

“I can’t seem to get my daughter to do her homework!”

And you know the kid is five.

“My son can’t be still in class! I think he has ADHD!”

And you know the kid is five. Or six, for that matter.

I see so many concerns over reading fair projects (that the parent totally completes), mediocre grades, worries over too many sick days taken, and so much more. I see moms cry when their five year old gets on the school bus far too early, without enough sleep, for a nine hour day, that most of the time no longer allows a nap midday.

I see friends worried over their second grader’s math scores, and I wonder if we’re perhaps a bit too concerned? Now, I’m all about education. I hold a higher degree, and because of that I have chances in my career I would not have had otherwise. I love to read, and I think an extensive vocabulary and proper grammar is a positive attribute to hold. But I wonder if we’re taking it too far, too soon?

For example, in some westernized countries children do not begin formal education until age seven, and I can totally see why. Four, five, and six years olds are still deeply discovering the world around them. They’re learning to deal with their emotions and interact with others. They’re creating relational characteristics that will help lay the foundation for the kind of adult they will be. They don’t need adult stress; they have enough to deal with in the way of child stress. There are so many unknowns, lessons, and daily discoveries they are making. We really don’t need to impede on that too much.

For young children learning should be mostly about play. They should be seeing that learning is fun, that discovery is adventure, and that it’s not a race to achieve, a box to check, or a test to complete. Reading should be for pleasure, not a painstaking chore, and this is something I had to understand early on in the education of my own children at home.

All kids are different, and they learn differently. Young children like to move around, their attention spans are short, and the older child box we try to squeeze young learners into isn’t the best for their development in my humble opinion. We as a society shouldn’t be so stringently expecting three years olds to know all their ABCs and 1,2,3s, or requiring prerequisite goals to be met prior to kindergarten. I could be wrong, but to me it seems that five year olds must know much more in school than they did when I was five. My question is how much better is a child for having this knowledge sooner? Are their career opportunities really that much more available if they can read by five or six instead of seven or eight? And who made these new gold standards? Who decided little kids that barely reach their teacher’s waist should be doing homework pages after an already too lengthy day?!

Maybe I’m too relaxed. Maybe you think I’m off my rocker, or that my kids will end up making nothing of their lives. I guess I’m just wondering who decides what outcome is worthwhile? Perhaps every child won’t go to college, and that’s okay. Some children may become neurosurgeons, while others will prefer an apprenticeship in a technical field. Isn’t that ok too? Will sitting five years olds in a desk for eight hours to complete worksheet after worksheet really produce the best outcome for future academic excellence? I say, hogwash. I say, let them be kids.

I say, let them run. Let them stand, sit, jump, and play. Let them discover the world around them. Let them ask questions, and be available for the answers. Let them observe their surroundings and create conclusions. Gently guide those experiences. Let them nap! Let them sleep in! Let them do structured, sit-down work for short bursts of time, and throw away the homework! Let their brains absorb all they can, but then also allow them time to decompress and unwind. Allow them the time to process all the new things they’re taking in.

But most importantly, we need to check ourselves. We need to stop worrying if our preschooler is at the right reading level, or if they’re measuring up. They’re three and four years old, for goodness sake. They have the rest of their lives to worry about deadlines and schedules. We need to stop creating this invisible yardstick that our young children must measure up to, or we’re the absolute worst parent in the world! Who cares if Michelle’s precious daughter can read already?! She also eats her boogers and pushes other kids in line!

Here’s what your children under seven absolutely need to know to be successful in this life:

They need to know how to love others.

They need to understand compassion.

They need to see the hurting, and help those kids.

They need to treat others like they would want to be treated.

They need to understand there’s more to life than their own backyard, that they’re not the most important kid in the world, and that they will mess up. For that they’ll just need to fess-up, say they’re sorry, and learn from their mistakes.

They need to know that their parents love them, are proud of them, and that they are unique. That they’re not held to a state standard, a society standard, or an unrealistic standard.

Again, they’ll need some reinforcement to treat others well.

Perhaps if we focused more on these things at an early age and less on perfect phonics and addition then there would be a lot less bullying in schools. Maybe we’re focusing on all the wrong stuff. Have you ever watched little kids when you let them loose on a playground? Like when they’re around four or five? Sure, there may be some problems sharing, but more than that is this amazing ability to coexist. When my kids go somewhere in public they’ll quickly make friends with children they’ve never met, regardless of color or socioeconomic background. There’s no judgement. There’s no preconceived notions. There’s just pure, human interaction in its best form. All children are born that way. But we as parents and society beat that out of them. We show them that things that aren’t really that important are important. Then we teach them that the important things don’t really matter. It’s like we pick calculus over compassion, and we drain the passion and natural tendency to explore the world around them right out of our children. Most average seven years old will know how to read, but they’ll miss the words on the sign of the homeless man on the street corner.

What really happens when we take away the childhood of our children? We take away their childlike faith and compassion. Then we replace it with all A’s on their report card and a first place ribbon in the science fair.

The Dishes Can Wait

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There’s so much to do today, so much that must be done. My nagging mind tells me to get up out of my warm, comfy bed, start my day, chug my coffee quickly, and cross things off my ever-growing to-do list. But then I see her, long eyelashes, pursed lips, the rise and fall of her tiny chest. 

She must have crawled into my bed even as I slept, and now she dreams contentedly with no concern for alarms or daily chores to accomplish. I watch her sleep, I breathe in her beauty, and I decide that perhaps getting up can wait. 

The kitchen tile is covered with remnants of dropped breakfast. I can feel crumbs cling to my bare feet as I walk back and forth collecting left over dishes, and my eyes seek out the broom eagerly to tackle my dirty floor. 

“Momma, can you read to me?”

  
And as we settle down on the couch together with a favorite book, I think, perhaps the dirty floor will hold. 

Lunch comes and goes. The kitchen counters grow more crowded. Dirty dishes pile higher and higher. But we have sunshine to soak up before the last leaves fall, pine cones to collect, and autumn walks to enjoy. 

Perhaps the dishes can wait. 

A thick film of dust lays on the mantle, the living room rug needs the attention of the vacuum, and don’t get me started on the ring around the tub. Yet imaginations are developing, the crayons beg to be used, and there’s still a small spot left on the refrigerator for a future Picasso’s budding artwork display. Perhaps the housework can be delayed a bit longer. 

Little legs are growing longer, and the babies are getting bigger. In fact they won’t stop no matter how much I will them to stay small. 

Time keeps on ticking, the sand in the hourglass falls faster, and seasons speed by before my very eyes. 

Chubby faces become defined cheekbones, flabby knees gain definition, and bitty babies become blossoming ladies. Too quickly it seems. Perhaps time with little ones waits for no one. 

So I stay in bed and cuddle a little bit longer. I hold off on sweeping for another day. I decide the dishes can wait after all, and the housework will still be there later on. 

Babies are only babies for a little while. Toddlers only wish to cuddle for a time. Little ones refuse to stay little, and missing out on childhood is a travesty indeed. 

I would not regret the forgotten housework or layers of dust left behind, but I knew childhood wouldn’t remain on the shelf, and I would sorely miss the opportunities available to take hold of fleeting memories with my little ones. 

So I say the dishes can wait, and I don’t have to clean the floor. The housework will hold-off while I spend my time enjoying life that much more. 

Have You Ever Met That Child Who Needs a Hug, Big-Time?

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A while back I witnessed an interaction between a parent and child that bothered me so bad that I’m still thinking about it. In my mind’s eye I can still picture the look of defeat on this little boy’s downcast face, and it makes me want to reach into my memory, pull him out, and envelope his lanky body in a massive bear hug. 

Have you ever met a child like that? One who needed a hug like a fish needs water?

I’m no perfect parent, not by a long shot. I yell at my kids sometimes, and I know I do it way more than I should. I’ve been known to react irrationally when under stress, and although I’ve never physically or emotionally abused my children in my moments of anger, I’m quite certain I’ve raised my voice to a level that does them no good, but rather only serves to harm us both. So I understand. I get that parenting is tough, and that emotions can become frayed. 

What I cannot understand is screaming at your child for over 45 minutes straight and about something like not understanding their school work. I watched in horror once as a mom berated her child endlessly. At first I thought, “yep,we’ve all been there,” but when it didn’t de-escalate I began to feel uncomfortable. 

As time ticked on the woman’s anger grew, her tone became more harsh and jagged, and I felt increasingly helpless. I only could imagine how the young boy felt, but I thought I might have an inkling by the way his shoulders slumped forward in surrender and his eyes stared forlorn at his dirty sneakers. 

It wasn’t my first encounter with the young man. I had been privy before to tales from his parents of his many and varied accomplishments, and his laundry list of accolades would certainly impress Harvard. Perhaps his confusion over his Science homework threatened his folk’s dreams of Ivy League, but it didn’t seem to soften the blow of her demeaning words and jabbing finger in my opinion. 

Whatever the reason for her continued rage I just couldn’t get behind it as a parent, and I kept hoping at some point she would stop and give him a hug. 

This is how you create serial killers, I mused to myself, and I had a future vision of him standing in a bell tower with a semiautomatic weapon trained on his peers. Would they all mysteriously bear his mother’s face through the scope of his deadly rifle?

My thoughts might seem like a stretch to some, but that didn’t change the fact that in my opinion this young man needed something he wasn’t getting. No, he didn’t need more activities to busy his time, and he didn’t require a learning curriculum better suited to his specific needs. What he required was to feel loved.

He needed someone to say, “you’re doing good,” or perhaps, “you’re a special young man.” My interactions with him previously had given me the impression he was a little bit odd, an outcast if you will, and I wondered if perhaps more positive reinforcement might not could bring him out of his shell. 

As I looked at him afterwards I wondered how often he heard, “I’m proud of you,” or even, “I love you.” I prayed he heard those things enough, but the way he shuffled away when I saw him last made me wonder. 

I wanted to hug him, and if I could turn back time I would do just that. Perhaps he would have stood there stiff, awkward, and uncomfortable. But perhaps he would have hugged me right back. 

5 Things I Never Knew I’d Have to Tell My Kids. Until I Did. 

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Parenthood is a lot of responsibility y’all, and it’s all about shaping young minds. Even though you never really know what you’re in for until they arrive, I had a pretty good idea of things. I mean, I knew a whole bunch of instruction would be required on my part. That’s obvious. After all they enter the world knowing nothing, and it falls on you to teach them stuff. No brainer, right?

  
Well, I guess the difficulty comes with the load that entails. I knew I’d teach them The Golden Rule, to look before crossing the street, and to wash their hands after using the bathroom. I even factored in the stuff like tying shoes and not picking your nose in public. But the thing about raising kids is that most stuff you just can’t be prepared for. 

In parenthood there’s so many lessons to impart that a lot of them you don’t even think about. You just kind of take it for granted that they’ll know better. Your kids seem pretty bright so you just assume they’ll figure it out, or perhaps it never even crosses your mind. Certain situations don’t seem like an issue until they become one, and it’s after the fact that you realize that’s probably something you should have discussed before. 

Here’s five examples of things I never knew I’d have to tell my kids. Until I did. 

1. Don’t undress in public. 

I was watching proudly through the window while my four year old twirled around in dance class when suddenly she dropped her leggings. She laughed as she bared her pale butt to the girl behind her, and I tensed up waiting for her show to end. I sighed with relief when she quickly pulled her pants back up, but then my heart sank a second time as she began to remove her leotard top. 

There she stood, huge grin, tiny breasts on display, and she danced proudly in front of the mirror at the apparent appreciation of her own body. It wasn’t a huge deal. I mean, she was only four, but she did happen to be the only naked girl in class at the time. So I was very happy when she pulled her top back on a split second before I was gonna run and cover her myself. 

I didn’t get on to her about it later, but simply discussed proper etiquette about being nude in public. At home I let her run around in her panties, not pushing modesty, and I realized I had never really explained to her, “you’re not supposed to get naked in public.”

Well, now she knows. 

2. Don’t urinate in public. 

Maybe this is a different animal for mommas of little boys, but as a girl mom it’s pretty much not socially acceptable for your daughter to pee outside, especially in the view of twenty or so strangers. 

When my first daughter was about two and a half going on three she was fully potty-trained. Yay! She knew to tell me when she had to go, and that’s exactly what she did as we left Walmart one day. Not wanting to go back inside the super-center I told her we’d drive over to a nearby gas station.

“Just hold it.” I instructed, driving quickly to the Chevron. 

I pulled up to the pump, unbuckled my preschooler, and went around the other side to remove my infant daughter from her own seat. As I turned around with the baby I spotted my potty-trained princess. She was hunkered over a drainage grate, with her pants around her knees, facing the storefront letting her urine stream go free. 

Hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go. And it’s not like I ever told her she shouldn’t. 

3. Don’t kiss people without their consent. 

I am proud that I am raising very loving children. We’re a very loving family. I often times peck my daughters right on the lips, and my husband and I aren’t shy to share a kiss in front of them.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when my now five year old daughter decided to show her gratitude for the birthday gift she received from the neighbor boy by planting a huge smooch right on his mouth. Like seriously, it was borderline inappropriate. She attacked his face with such unbridled passion for a kindergartener.

I wish you could have seen my husband’s expression as he parted their sea of PDA, and the poor little boy didn’t know what to think. I later had to explain you don’t just kiss a boy on the mouth without their permission. The next fifteen years or so should be interesting. 

4. The need for cultural sensitivity. 

You just don’t think about it, do you? Not until you’re in the grocery store and a Hispanic family passes by. 

“Hey, Mom?” (Very loudly) “Are they speaking Mexican?”

Then to the woman, “Do you know Dora?”

Thankfully the woman didn’t appear to understand her. 

5. Boobies are private. 

I have breastfed all my children until at least 18 months of age. With this in mind they see breasts as a food outlet and source of comfort rather than a sexual object. 

I still remember the look on that poor teenage boy’s face who was sacking my groceries when my baby daughter reached into my shirt as I stood in the check-out line and promptly pulled my breast out for all to see. 

Hey, she was hungry. Try explaining to a hungry baby they can’t just pull out lunch whenever they want. Not happening. And until I stood in the grocery store with my boob out I didn’t even imagine I would have to. 

I guess that’s just the way it is. Parenthood is like starting a new employment opportunity, but without any orientation, and the job description changes daily. It’s kinda a fly by the seat of your pants deal, and the best you can do is hang on and enjoy the ride. You learn as you go, and that’s half the fun. It just might be a bit embarrassing sometimes too.