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It has come to my attention recently that Toddlers and Teens have so much more in common than they would ever think. Teens and toddlers have a similar formula for success; fed, rested, heard. Feelings are big. Consequences are heavy feeling. The world feels bigger than it once did and you begin to realize that the dark can feel scary. They like to know a lot and tell you how to do things. My husband used to call it, “Up-Down.” This zone toddlers wanted to be held in that was neither being up or down. Like they would be happiest being held somewhere at our waist height. Teens are so similar- thankfully not physically but emotionally for sure. The dance of twirling together and apart all at the same time- sometimes leaving us all dizzied. In some ways teens are a rebirth of some of the best parts of toddlers. They are entertaining and funny, confusing and inspiring. Sleep schedules feel irrelevant to both ages as does volume control. Teens can feel like loud, impulsive, house mates who you are trying to understand and can’t help but love to pieces. Unlike toddlers, they can tie their own shoes and can dress themselves which is considerably easier.

It is raining and cold here today and the craving for lasagna has settled over my husband and I-much to our children’s dismay. Too saucy. Too cheesy. Too much spinach. This mild rebellion results in the recent and fair weathered union of my kids asking for spaghetti instead. I decide to run to the store for the few ingredients I need and the teens ask to come along. The oldest so that he can drive and make me nervous, the second so that she can discuss her budding frustrations with “The Patriarchy” as she sees it…. and to educate us on the new “leather” made from mangoes. Puddles make a soothing swoosh as they splash against our car and I use my pretend brake pedal whenever a car slows in front of us as I am sure Oldest just likes to see my white knuckles.

They choose the music. They lead the conversations. They complain that they are hungry. Both wearing new hats they received for Christmas, bringing along their new treasures to the store. I look over my shoulder and see E, looking out the window, her big blue eyes, slowly blinking as the warm heater rushes past her face. I remember her blonde wispy curls tucked between the straps on her carseat, talking about fairies and flowers and telling us how to catch an ostrich. Oldest is concentrating on the road and I can’t help but picture him, not long ago in my mind’s eye, driving a little plastic red and yellow car around our house like a bumper car. The determination in his slight smile looks the same.

We get into the store and I laugh to myself as they walk ahead of me, purposely aggravating each other and laughing. They grab things we need and things we don’t need. They jokingly say to me, “PLEEEEEASE MOM?!” knowing all the while I will shrug my shoulders and say yes. Out of maternal obligation and reinstating the old lessons of childhood, I say something that sounds like I am only marginally annoyed about their asking. Inside though my heart is smiling. When they were little Littles they would ask for fish shaped crackers and bright red popsicles and I would let them choose one treat out, all the while reminding them that we aren’t getting everything they ask for. Teens are the same. Sure, the old popsicles are now pints of designer ice cream the fish crackers are some cheesy snack stamped “extra spicy” but the feeling is the same. Only now they know the lesson and they somewhat observe it and somewhat remind me of the importance of treating oneself. When I stand there looking at different cheeses and they see my debate, they gently take the one I really want and put it in the cart. They know that treating them to something is easier than treating myself. They know that they can do it for me and I won’t resist.

I remember it all so well. Oldest walking though the store with me, holding onto the cart and baby sister strapped to me in a sling. His brown curls a few steps ahead of me, the cart taller than him. Baby Sister chewing on the straps to the baby carrier, drool covering both of us. Leaning my nose onto the top of her downy soft hair and breathing in the glorious smell of a baby- like a primal need to survive. I would feel so relieved when we made it through the store, getting home and unloading babies and groceries and patting myself on the back, thankful it didn’t take too long. Today though, it was different. As our children’s youth becomes a fleeting season we want it to suspend in time. Those moments that we needed to hurry along when they were younger for the survival of all involved now only present themselves in thumbnail sketches.

I know they won’t always go to the store with me. In fact, they rarely do. I remember that feeling- seeing other parents shopping alone and I would watch them float by me like they were on a raft with a drink in their hand and I would be flailing in the pool, trying to keep my kids above water. Time is a strange friend like that. I have found my stroke and the flail is done but I have also found that the raft isn’t quite what I thought it was either. When days like this happen I try to soak it up like sunshine after a long winter.

Oldest and Baby Sister went to the store with me today but we didn’t flail, nor did we float. We just were- together.

My oldest son is a new adult, a fresh eighteen year old, my youngest is five. My middle children are fourteen and eight. Each stage and age has brought with it new joys, new hurts, new accomplishments, new challenges. Some of their “stuff” is typical coming of age growing pains, some is not- some individual to them. When my oldest was younger, his hurts were mine- we were intertwined like a field of flowering vines trying to figure out how to grow together. My next child, my only daughter, hooked into my soul in a different way, she illuminated a younger version of me. Feeling my own womanhood- what it meant, what it didn’t. My next child was my rainbow baby after a series of painful losses. He climbed into my aching heart and took residence in both the shadow of sadness and the light of dawn. Fiery and resolute- the spirit of spring after and a long and cold winter. My youngest babe is fresh and golden, like the caboose of a train- giving me a view of where I have been while I continue moving forward.

So when I say that I have four kids in four different stages, it is no joke. We range from big stuff like moving into adulthood to being scared of the dark. And really isn’t it all just the same? That lack of knowing what is ahead without seeing clearly.

I remember bringing our oldest to the doctor and how he would cry with an immunization and my eyes would blur over, tears rolling down my face. It was clear how fast our culture equated bravery to a lack of emotion- which is ironic- as courage is yet another feeling. (I remember people saying how “brave” their babies were based on how much the did or didn’t cry and I always found that such a strange comparison) That line between comfort and dismissing feelings a fuzzy line. I used to see myself needing to walk the tight rope of emotions with them- holding them- guiding their steps- carrying the pole. Their feelings were my feelings too. I am an Empath and it is natural to me to FEEL my way through the world. I thought the more I moved toward them, the more we were both in “it” the more supported they would feel. Truth is, the more I tried to balance us, the more I shook the rope. Instead of helping them steady their world- the more I shook it up. They didn’t need me on the tight rope with them- they need me to instead be the net. The constant. The place to fall- the place to land after taking a tumble or a soaring leap. The net doesn’t judge. The net doesn’t wobble. The only reaction of the net is how far it needs to flex. The net doesn’t live the experience, it is only there to witness it.

Even now, once in a while, my youngest kids talk my oldest kids into a game of tag. They scramble around the yard, breathless and sweating. They dodge and swerve, they laugh. Sometimes they trip each other, sometimes they fall. Each “tag” brings with it some feeling. Disappointment. Excitement. Joy. Fear. Frustration. Life is like that. Each tag brings with it a new set of feelings to witness. I am home base. The place they run back to- sometimes wrapping their arms around my waist, sometimes they just leave a hand on me, the oldest just stands close. They don’t want to me to play tag with them, they just want me to be home base. To be constant. To regulate. Their big feelings take courage to feel- and they aren’t asking me to feel them as well, just to stand near to help them come back home to themselves.

As adults we need it too. After a hard day, I don’t want my husband to play tag with me. I don’t want him to run around in the scramble- I need him to be home base.

Our kids, our partners, our loves…they show their feelings to us to offer a backdrop to where they are in that moment- and we can witness it too, but from the net, not the rope.

Years ago, back before I had children and worked at a job where I had summers off, my mom had a knee replacement. Each day I would pack a little lunch and head to the hospital to visit with her and aide in her recovery. After she mastered walking up and down the hallway, she had to try stairs. We slowly walked to the Physical Therapy room where a wooden stairway to nowhere and everywhere all at the same time awaited her arrival. I watched her stand and the bottom of these four or five steps and stare them down. The Physical Therapist who was very kind but had no sympathy (knowing her job was to get my mom moving) said something I will never forget. Now not everyone can hear advice from a PT and apply it to life, but that day, it certainly stuck. “Up with the good, down with the bad.” In her practical application she literally meant that-the least painful and safest route- go up the stairs with your good leg, down with your bad.

Recently after a particularly long day of something I call “adulting”, those words resurfaced in my mind. It is important to note that I am not someone who is a pessimist or an optimist- I am more of a “centerist” where I feel the pull of both sides often. It was one of those days where the demands on my energy was more than I could fill. Where the moods of my children ranged from joy filled acrobats to devastated, shriveled raisins. My husband was overwhelmed with work, the house literally looked like a thousand band groupies had held some after party, and the dogs had fleas- lots of them. The kids were somewhere between laughing and crying, the husband was somewhere between being incredibly busy and needing stillness, and the dogs were scratching, itching, scratching. And I had given up on the house- like thinking that maybe renting an industrial sized dumpster would be the only option.

“Up with the good and down with the bad.” “Up with the good and down with the bad.” The genius of this statement echoed like it it been whispered from a toga wearing philosopher in my ears.

I remembered that my responsibility in loving my husband is to hear his feelings but not to offer solutions other than listening. I remembered that my kids are certainly entitled to experience a huge range of feelings and my job is to hold them but again not solve them. I cleaned up a few things and delegated the rest. And I didn’t feel guilty about that. (they are in fact not my Lego) And the dogs? They just needed a bath.

I put the bad down. I put the overwhelmed down. I put the feeling of needing to do it all at once down. I picked up some self care. I picked up some take out. I picked up some honesty- not needing to reconcile my inability to do everything I thought I needed to do with my amount of energy- and instead got real about what was actually fair to expect of myself.

We are not all recovering but we are all climbing stairs of some sort. Now and then those stairs are steep, long, never ending. Sometimes there is a handrail and sometimes we have to rely on our own steam to get there but “up with the good and down with the bad” will make that climb a little less painful.

My husband and I moved to a new home in a new town in a new state and felt like we had moved to a new world. We were a family of three and our oldest was the only grandchild at the time- moving away from two sets of grandparents. We moved into a culdesac where ours was one of the first houses built, over time this changed but in the beginning, it was very quiet. A couple months later, I heard a laugh outside, I peeked out the door and saw a man walking up the the new house next door. Little did I know at the time, that first introduction would be the beginning of a beautiful friendship- he told me that his wife and their son would be moving in soon. Could it be true? Could this be happening? Could we have a sweet little family, a lot like ours, moving in next door? Up until that time, the only people I talked to were the unlucky few I cornered in Trader Joes, trying desperately to find community.

Before long, our kids were friends, as much of friends as toddlers could be. They took turns dumping cups of water, blowing bubbles, playing in small plastic pools. I remember the first time T toddled into their house without me for a play date, the first one without me in tow. I think of all of the iced tea we shared, sitting on their cement steps that lead to their door. Red, juicy, drips from cherry popsicles running down dimpled chins. I remember when my friend bought a bin of legos and dumped them on a tarp in her front yard, quickly becoming a magnet to our boys. Both of our husband’s worked unconventional schedules and we both understood the deep implications of that. The loneliness that accompanied a Christmas Eve alone or a Thanksgiving where you still tried to teach your kids about being thankful that Daddy had a job, even if he was away. All the while calling each other to regain our composure. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Barbecues. Watermelons. Snow Days. Hot Chocolate. Ice Cream.

There is no way to log how many hours my dear friend and I have sat outside in our little corner of the world. Summer belonged to us. Our boys couldn’t wait to get outside to each other every single day, and S and I were the same. When one of us would go on vacation, the time went so slowly, waiting for the return of our routine, the return of iced tea and hours of chatting. We tied water balloons until our fingers ached, we bandaged skinned knees, we honored sad hearts, we oversaw lemonade stands, and nerf gun battles and somewhere along the way, we became family.

When the sun was shining, our hearts were aglow with joy, life was good. When the rain fell, we offered each other shelter. We have witnessed each other’s tears, we have honored each other’s anger, we have worried, we have grown, we have laughed. And each season, one thing remained- a well worn path between our front doors.

My friends are leaving the culdesac, moving on to a new landscape, a new adventure, a new neighborhood. And although I am eagerly awaiting stories from their next chapter, my hearts stings when I think of not seeing their car in the driveway. I do not know a life here of not waving to them everyday, often not even knowing if they are waving back- but just in case they are watching, I wanted them to know that each wave was an ” I love you, we will be back soon!”

Friends, the day to day can be hard and it can feel so long. Especially if you are on your own. In those moments of cleaning up popsicle sticks, draining tiny pools, stepping on legos, wondering what is for dinner, leave a little space for the beauty. Those days are life. We live in a weekend obsessed world, but the reality is, most of our lives are not the weekend- but the days in between. Life is happening right in front of us while we daydream about something else. Before long, the kids no longer need us so close, no longer want us so close. But the connections that you make through them will remain. I remember planning my wedding and wondering why my mom wanted to invite so many of her friends. I no longer wonder that. Those women are her community- her source of encouragement on those long days. I could easily go on being neighbors with S and her family forever, but as life goes, our book is turning a page.

It may take me some time to stop waving at the house next door, but the sentiment is the same. “I love you and I will be back soon.”

Have you ever watched a Great Blue Heron take flight? I was on an early morning walk alone the other day, near the river that borders my neighborhood. I saw this Great Blue Heron looking up to the sky. It started to move it’s wings and at first it just kind of hovered over the water, then it slowly started to move forward, it’s wings almost moving like a wave, sucking air underneath them for lift. When it started moving forward, it didn’t fly very high, a few times, it’s wingtips even dipped into the water. Eventually though, it found it’s rhythm and began to fly higher out of sight as it made it’s way down a tree lined corridor up river. Besides being captivated by the majesty of nature, I thought a lot about that bird and how it’s flight felt familiar to me.

Homeschool can feel like that Heron’s take off. At first we hover and then when we want to get somewhere, sometimes it feels like we are moving slowly, making us wonder if we are actually moving at all. And when our wingtips dip back into the water, we begin to wonder if this flight is actually going to happen. But then we begin to settle into a pattern that lifts us higher and takes us further.

People often ask me if we take a summer break. Happy to offer their opinions on the matter, I oblige their curiosity and answer their questions. And yes, in our house, we take a summer break. We also take a winter break and a spring break and a Wednesday break or a Monday morning break if we need it. When we started, I was diligent about keeping a Monday-Friday routine. The problem was, the routine wasn’t giving us much lift. We were hovering but we weren’t moving forward. As time went on and I felt more comfortable with adjusting the schedule as needed, I could feel the enthusiasm for learning coming back for not only my children but myself as well.

I remember worrying that breaks meant that momentum was lost. But momentum isn’t the same as learning. Momentum is like a side effect of movement- it isn’t the initiation of movement. So when we take a break, we are allowing ourselves to pause, rest and then walk more boldly with intention in the direction we want to go. Momentum is wonderful if you are on a swing, never really going anywhere but back and forth. Hovering. Our Heron friend was not going to take it’s grand flight by hovering alone. It is in that space of stopping and starting again that we can decide if the swing was really what we wanted, maybe we wanted the slide or the monkey bars instead?

I don’t know how long a Heron flies before it takes a break. Perhaps this will be an upcoming topic for learning in our house! What I do know is that eventually, it stops and takes a break. And that doesn’t mean it forgets to fly, it just means it is taking a beat to figure out which direction to go next.

As a child, I was fortunate to be raised near my grandparents. My mom’s parent’s, Stan and Ann, were amazing people. They lived only a couple miles away from us, although not walking distance as a winding, redwood tree lined highway separated our homes. My grandparents had one bin of toys my entire childhood that we could play with as well as a deck of “Old Maid” cards. The cards were kept in a drawer next to the kitchen table along with several decks of playing cards, collected from casinos on their beloved trips to Reno. Most of my childhood, they lived in a retirement community that was also a campground. I loved being at their house. I loved cooking with my grandma, I loved watching “Jeopardy” with my grandpa. I loved making mud pies and learning addition by playing blackjack at their table. One of the best parts of being with them though was their stories. My grandpa would sit outside with me, in front of their house, plants everywhere, telling me stories that formed my understanding of who they were besides being my grandma and grandpa. I would go on walks with my “Grams” and she would stop and catch up with everyone she knew, Ted, Francie, Violet and June. The joy of being with my grandma only amplified by also hearing the stories of her community.

In addition to being amazing people, my grandparent’s both came from amazing people. Several times each year, we would pile into my mom’s station wagon and head back to the town they both grew up in. As we would make the left turn, down the lane to my great aunt and uncle’s house, my grandparents would barely be able to contain their excitement. There would be hugging and laughing and hand holding, and my favorite…conversation. Almost instantly, I was swept from the adventure of being on the road with my grandparent’s, to the magic of being at my aunt and uncle’s house. It was like a wonderland to me, a child who grew up in a neighborhood. Pastures and fruit trees, kittens and animals, grass so thick under your feet, it didn’t even leave a dent where you had walked.

Once a year there was a family reunion, my grandpa coming from a large family, made for a robust turnout! There was always fruit punch for the kids to drink that stained our smiles like red lipstick. And everywhere you looked, at some level, we shared the bonds of familial connection. Although I loved the family reunions, for me the best hadn’t even happened yet. After the reunion we would head back to my aunt and uncle’s house for swimming (now as a parent I see the absolute genius of wearing us kids out) where we would spend the night. We would change into our pajamas and sleep on the floor of the living room floor adjacent to the kitchen, where the adults would sit at the table and chat. I still to this day can’t find the words to describe the feelings of wonder, contentment, safety and joy of falling asleep listening to them tell and retell stories. Their history. Their narration of life to that point.

My kids love stories too. Each of them. One of their favorite things is sitting around our kitchen table with us, their aunts and uncles, their grandmas, old friends- to listen to stories. It is how they get to know us other than how they see us now. The older they get, they begin to tell their stories too. Like a passing of the torch between generations, they begin to recount memories that hold some thing for them too. Oral histories are something that are a wonderful tool for learning. Besides getting a snapshot view of life throughout a window of time, they learn about being a gracious winner or feeling confident even in defeat. They learn about the value of laughing at themselves, they learn about empathy and loss. Birth and hope. Telling stories is like seeing life off of a page, in all of it’s glorious dimensions. There have been days where I have earmarked math pages or journal topics but am instead met with an opportunity for my kids to see a family member, and not with anything other than the intention of a visit. And never once have I regretted passing off a worksheet for the chance to get to know each other a little better. To get to love each other a little more.

Sometimes people ask me how to limit interruptions during the “school day”. To that, I have no idea. Interruptions are only negative when we perceive them to be. I have treasured the times we have had family in town during the “school” week. There is no better interruption than the weaving of histories under my roof. Someday my kids will reflect on the magic of falling asleep to the melody of familiar voices laughing together. I will continue retelling the stories of my grandparents so their history lives on, it’s one of the ways we keep those loved ones a part of our daily lives.

So go ahead, tell your “once upon a time” fruit punch optional.

I have just finished my workout (an integral part of taking care of myself in a world where my kids are always around me) and am sitting in front of a full basket of clean laundry.

“I don’t know what is wrong with me.” I tell my husband.

“Why do you think something is wrong?” He asks me.

“Well, my workout felt really hard today even though it was the same as yesterday. I keep yawning, I can’t get going. It’s like I am tired.”

“Are you…tired?” He asks.

“Yes, I am. I don’t get it, I slept well last night, I am just tired today.” I say as I sift through laundry trying to find a pair of yoga pants that are only slightly different than the ones I wore yesterday.

It’s interesting that the first thought I have when I feel tired is that something is wrong. Lacking my usual level of energy or motivation must mean I am not okay. Twelve years of homeschooling, and although the influence of whatever else life shuffles our way offers variations on what a year looks like, basically each year the flow is the same. September brings with it an abundance of inspiration that has certainly dropped off by December…right in time for a break. In January, the Christmas tree comes down, the decorations are packed up for the year and there is a renewal of energy heading into the next part of our “school year”. This burst of energy though doesn’t get me through like the one that September offered. Sometimes the curriculum that I once loved brings me boredom. The once sharpened new pencils feel dull, the pointy tips of crayons, worn down to being level with their paper sleeves. February has hit.

February is undoubtedly one of the hardest months for many home school families and I would imagine the same may be true for educators and families in conventional school settings. In February the nagging voice of doubt creeps in…..in no particular order this list mounds….

-Have they learned enough?

-Have they learned anything?

-Is this working?

-Does homeschooling even work for us?

-Did I choose the right topics to cover this year?

These questions generally invade my quiet space and demand answers, even when I am not sure I have them. And like this morning, I realize, I am tired.

Then it dawns on me. It is Winter. Winter is the season of rest. Winter is the season that the roots of the tallest trees remain buried under layers of earth and leaves. Winter is the season that animals hibernate. Winter is the season that bulbs only grow under the mounds of dirt and even the sun, rests more of the day. We don’t expect tulips to bloom in January. We don’t expect lakes to warm for swimming in February. Are we any different? Our biology and our intellect of being human makes us different than a plant, but are our primal needs that different? We don’t choose to winter down though. Quite the opposite really, we host big holiday gatherings, we make resolutions to work our bodies harder, we harshly judge our craving for meals that stick to our bones. Animals build a thicker layer for winter and like animals (that we often forget we are) we do too. Our once sun soaked feet now don thick socks. We cast off t-shirts and shorts for warm pajama, we eat the carbs, we slow cook pot roasts, we make our Grandma’s recipe for chicken and dumplings. Recipes that take all day to cook, recipes that fill your kitchen with the smells of home.

In reality, one of the things that probably feels so good about the winter holidays is the home making.

I live in the Pacific Northwest, where SAD (seasonal affective disorder) is discussed as openly as the merits of sustainably farmed, oat milk lattes. I am forced to wonder though if the tug toward a winter depression relates to my ignoring what my body and brain are asking for? Am I neglecting my need to rest? To pull back? That need to slow down with nature. Is that feeling of “not keeping up” real? Or is it a narrative we have accepted…that keeping up with the pace of other seasons should be the norm. When the sun is out and the air is warm, I long to get out to my yard work. I crave the tired body and sore muscles that my hobby garden brings. If you told me today to go outside and work in my yard you would be met with tremendous resistance. Not only is it cold, my body does not crave that work right now. That does not mean I am lazy, it is simply, not the season.

Wintering down is what our bodies crave. When they ask us for rest and repair we push them harder. When I was tired on the elliptical today, I didn’t stop, I increased the resistance, I increased the incline. Almost like a punishment to my body who was only asking me for a break today. When I am tired, my patience are short, which only injures the bonds of love that I work to create. Yet I adhere to lessons that aren’t working instead of cuddling up and reading something they love. The comparison and contradiction striking really, I want my body to be stronger so I push it, even when it asks for rest. I want to model patience but I behave in a way that creates separation. Perhaps in February, home school needs time to winter down as well. Maybe we put away some of the lessons we thought we would do and trade them for a day, week, month, of coloring or puzzles or naps. Perhaps we give ourselves and our children the very thing they are asking for. Rest, repair, replenishment. Feeding our souls. Resting our bodies. Releasing our minds from the rigors of routine. Why do we give ourselves permission to take a holiday off but not an ordinary Tuesday? Truth be told, those holidays off aren’t always that restful. Is it possible that those nagging questions about home school aren’t in fact concerns but a sign that I need a break? That we need a break.

We are part of nature. Why do we ignore the possibility that we need the seasons just as the world outside our door does? How absurd would it be to demand a perfectly ripe peach to grow in the middle of the darkest time of the year? We wouldn’t, it wouldn’t make sense. We are like those fruit trees. Root deep, rest, repair, grow, blossom, bear fruit- even though we have access to most fruits now year around, should we?

We all know that in the right season of growth, the fruit is the best.

Gravity on earth only works because it is neither too much nor too little. In the proper dose, gravity simultaneously keeps us from floating away and/or being squashed down to the earth helplessly. In that regard, love is a similar although unexpected cousin of gravity. The right kind of love keeps us both grounded but still moving forward. I am the only daughter to my parent’s, a daughter among all brothers. I loved having brothers. I loved the variety of our play, I loved that I learned how to play cup ball in the street and I learned how to aim a squirt gun with precision. I am not saying that I wouldn’t have learned those things had I had sisters but I can only speak from my experience of having all brothers and what that brought with being the only girl in a family. I remember wondering what a sister would be like- similarly to curly hair vs my very straight hair.

This is not to say that I haven’t experienced the love of sisterhood.

For some women, a sister is part of their birth family. For some it is their adopted family. For other’s their bonus or step family. For me, the sisterhood I have experienced has come from a few places. When I was a young girl, it came from a friend down the street. Baby dolls and barbies filled our days when we were young, then came along babysitting together, whispering about secret crushes, logging miles of walking each other home. It was a precious time of childhood friendship- and now years and years later, we ended up in another small town together 700 miles from where we met.

My brothers are all married to women and that introduced having a sisterhood of a new variety. I am also married to a man who has a sister so I have the privilege of both loving sisters-in-laws that my brothers have married as well as the sisterhood I married into. We share the honor of all having children and that part of sisterhood with them is a favorite of mine. We don’t all do things the same way but we all love our kids BIG! We love each other’s kids BIG as well. This sisterhood is so special because it is the crossing over of two family systems into an intricate tapestry of old and new, what was, what is and what will be.

But that’s not all. There are also our sisters that we share life experiences with because they too have felt the weight of similar heartache. I share a sisterhood with women who have had silently born babies. I share a sisterhood with women who have had miscarriages. I share a sisterhood with women who have struggled with postpartum depression. I share a sisterhood with women who have a child with a chronic illness. I have a sisterhood with women who grew up as the daughters of addiction.

But that’s not all. I have friends (that I lovingly refer to as Sister Girls) who I can call at 2 am and they can do the same with me. Sister Girls that I have loved on when they had cancer. Sister Girls who I have loved on when their spouse was ill. Sister Girls I have loved on when the rigors of motherhood made them crumble under the pressure of it all and reality feels out of reach. I have Sister Girls that I have loved when anxiety claws at them and threatens to steal their truth.

But that’s not all. I have a sisterhood with women who work in animal rescue (a cause near and dear to our hearts and our homeschooling mission) sisters that I have worked with to save an animal that a human has failed. A sisterhood of homeschooling women- all defending each other’s right to choose an education that works for our individual children. A sisterhood of women who have helped me dig my way out when the earth felt like it was swallowing me whole- who held me up- who straightened my crown.

Sisterhood. The definition of sisterhood says something about sharing a common trade. A trade defined as a skilled job. So what is it? What about these bonds of sisterhood is so unique to other relationships, how do we nurture that tie that builds our web of connection?

There is a system that wants the sisterhood to plateau- not fail because failure of us is a failure for society. They set up the competition when we are young though- homecoming queens, prom queens, beauty queens, top models, class mom, team mom, pinterest mom, working mom, stay at home mom, homeschooling mom. They give us the label to pin on our cardigans, our jean jackets, our fishnets, our flannel- and they remind us to stay put. But Sisters, within those labels we do not grow, we cannot, for our entire person cannot and should not live within the confines of that name tag. But the system gets scared. If we do not stay within our assigned stations, we could share our ideas, we could lend our strength- we could raise our voices.

Recently I was recollecting on the life of someone I shared a sisterhood with, who is no longer walking the grass of this earth. My heart ached, it twisted in my chest and felt like it wasn’t beating right. Grief hurts like that. And although I miss this sisterhood in the earthly sense, I will carry it with me all of my days. The truth is, we collect these sisterhoods throughout our entire lives. We adorn each other with the accessories of our knowledge, of our love, our encouragement, our joy, our sadness. We make each other’s lives a little softer- the edges a little more smoothed out. We help lift each other to not only see a better view but to live with a better view.

I was not a child who had any sisters born into my house but I am a grown woman who treasures the sisterhoods that have been born and will continue to be born into my heart now.

I was at the store the other day and in the checkstand one over, I heard this little voice. This young girl (maybe eight or nine years old) was standing there, trying to get the attention of the man working at the cash register.

“Excuse me.” She says.

No answer.

“Excuse me.” She says, this time a little louder.

No answer.

“Excuse me.” She says, this time in a tone that has grown in both volume and confidence.

The man with the official looking keychain holding nearly a thousand keys looks at her and she continues.

“That vending machine over there, I put 75 cents in it and it took my money and didn’t give me a toy.”

He asks her which one.

“That one. Right there. It took my 75 cents. I would like my 75 cents back.”

He walks over to the row of vending machines, some with gumballs, some with small bouncy balls. He jiggles the machine around. He twists the knobs and looks puzzled.

“Sometimes they just do that.” He says with a shrug.

“I would like my money back. It’s 75 cents.”

He walks back to his cash register and punches a few buttons and hands her 75 cents.

“Here is your money back, you can go try again.”

This young woman looks at him and shrugs her shoulders, similarly to the way he had shrugged her off initially.

When I was a young girl, I would have let the vending machine steal my money. I would have felt defeated. I would have also beat myself up for making the choice to throw caution to the wind and dropped my precious coins into the machine in the first place. Not this little soul though. She stood there in a glittery sock hat, she spoke up, she took her money back. She didn’t trust that vending machine again and she offered no apology. I watched her walk back to a man and she linked her arm with his.

“I got my money back Dad.”

He nodded and smiled. And I nodded and smiled. Although I really wanted to jump on the conveyer belt and applaud them both.

Friends. Stop feeding those vending machines that offer you nothing in return, they too will happily take your coins and they won’t apologize when they leave you empty handed. It’s okay to save those coins for someone else, something else or even just to save for yourself.

Part of parenting your children is learning to parent yourself. We find ourselves rewriting narratives and sometimes playing reruns. Favorite traditions we had as children reappear and feel both familiar and new, seeing them with a fresh perspective through the lens of our kids. There is a shifting that occurs for some of us, that new role of being the mid generation among our extended family, having parents as well as children. I will probably begin to sound like a broken record as I discuss this again and again but, just like our children and even our parents go through periods of needing extra nurturing, so do we.

The hard part here is making ourselves a priority. It is not comfortable for many and this isn’t specific to women and it isn’t even specific to parents. As adults, the demands are many and as parents the needs of those around us- those who mean more to us that anything are even greater. The beautiful wrapping of love that holds on to the packages that are our children is provided by us. We carefully fold our corners and tape them up, and put a bow on the top. As we layer that beautiful paper, sometimes little tears happen and we don’t unwrap the gift, we just incorporate them in, being mindful to not make the tear any bigger. Just like that paper though- sometimes we get to the end of a roll. And that brown cardboard tube lays on the floor, next to the beautifully wrapped package. We are that tube. We give all we can and eventually we are stripped down and left without any paper left to offer. The hard part is, that this happens gradually and by the time we run low, it is even harder to refill.

Well friends, I have been in a season of cardboard tube. And sometimes I feel like I just roll under the couch with the dust bunnies. And sometimes the kids insist on using me for a sword fight, or a megaphone, or a tunnel for tiny cars. My children only know my structure and that is their job. They don’t know when my roll is empty, it is not how this gig works. Our job is to be mindful of how fast we are unrolling and when we need to stop and take some time to stock back up. It is important because the more we unroll, the more of a deficit we are trying to operate from. Part of that self care is healing. Healing is such an individual experience as our hurts come from many different places. The need to heal though is universal.

I grew up in the generation of roller rinks. We had one a few miles from our home and indulge my nostalgia for a moment when I tell you it was rad. Disco ball. Nacho cheese sauced chips. Brown shag carpet on the walls. It was THE place to be. We were lucky enough to go a few times a week. I used to marvel at the skaters who would dare go into the middle of the rink. They would spin and twirl, they wore sequins and lycra and nylons. They brought their own skates. When the rest of us followed the rules and went one direction in the rink, these renegades would skate through us and it was like the sea parting as they cut through the crowd into the center. Nobody dared cut through the center- it was like the hallowed ground of the rink. And they dazzled.

I skated a lot. And on the straightaways I was smooth. My brown permed hair would stick to my sweaty forehead, the stirrups to by stretch pants (you know before we called them leggings) would pull into the arches of my feet that were stuffed into tan rented skates and I would glide on my eight wheels while bobbing my head to Debbie Gibson blaring loudly, vibrating around the building. Each time I got to a corner though, I would start to slow down. I didn’t trust myself on the corners. I would watch the more advanced skaters criss-cross their skates and move through the corners like they were flying. Each time I got up the courage to try, my stomach would lurch and I would picture myself wiping out the entire group of skaters around me as I tumbled to the ground. So I played it safe. I slowed for the corners, I did this sort of weird little lean that always hurt my ankles but it was familiar.

Healing is kind of like my experience roller skating. The straightaways are okay! Fun even. We pick up steam, we sway to the music, sometimes we hold hands. The corners are the hard part. Wherever you are in your healing, each time you head back to that one spot, it trips you up. Where once maybe you slowed to a stop, or inched along the wall or even left the rink, you now decide to keep going. And the weird lean you did to get by, you discover really does hurt- and it hurts worse than falling. An added complication is when we live our life on the straightaway, fearing the curve, we can’t build our speed. We can’t truly enjoy what is happening because we are fearing hitting that point again. Here is the thing- we have two choices- we can learn to navigate the curves or we can pretend that we don’t need to- which leaves us awkwardly leaning.

I think back to those swans of the rink. The ones who wore the solid white skates with neon pink wheels and twirled like they had wings. You know what those skaters also did?They fell. They fell really hard sometimes. But they didn’t fall because they were inching along the rink, going the same way they always had, keeping their fingers threaded into the shag carpeted walls. They fell because they tried. They showed up for the adventure of life. They fell because they were bold enough to fall and heal and fall and heal. Then they would rest. Then like the rock stars they were they would part the seas again and take their place in the center. The funny thing is, when they fell we watched- because we wanted to see what would happen next.

So lace up your skates friends. Those curves will happen. But right after the curve you will hit another straightaway where you will build your speed, build your confindence, build your skills. You will find your stride, so will I. And then we will twirl.