ThreeThingsThursday: The top 3 reasons we have decided to homeschool

ThreeThingsThursday: The top 3 reasons we have decided to homeschool

Spoiler alert: the pandemic actually isn’t on the list. Moving along.

I am ready to do the walk of crisis-schooling shame. I failed. Truly. My husband works full time; I work part time. We are lucky to have kept our jobs through this. We have a kindergartner and a two year old. The meetings, the daily assignments…we just couldn’t do it. We couldn’t keep up, and eventually, we all fizzled out.

There has not been a moment in time during this pandemic bullshit that I have not felt like a failure in one of my roles: being a mom, being a teacher, being a wife, being someone who cares about her own mental health and well-being.

I have now finished my coronavirus crisis schooling walk of shame, because after going through all of the above for months, ya girl is comin’ out swinging and ready to stand thy ground.

Which is why…drumroll please…we are very excited to move to a homeschooling model of education beginning in fall 2020. Not cyber school; not crisis school — legit, mom-is-my-teacher-and-maybe-sometimes-dad-is-too- school.

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Thrive Thirty! A Brief Introduction

Thrive Thirty! A Brief Introduction

Lately I have been thinking about how to bring more value to my audience. Most of my followers (over 2k on this blog and 9k on the Gram!) are moms who are athletic. I kept going through ideas in my head about what content I can produce that is easy to understand, implement, and share…

…and it hit me one night: Thrive Thirty.

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Five Momisms I’m Totally Done With

Five Momisms I’m Totally Done With

I’ve been focused on contentment, giving, and self-care lately (you can see a glimpse of this in my last post). I’m working to find contentment in each stage of life and to be thankful that I am here another day. God didn’t create us to be miserable complainers, so I am working on finding joy vs. finding things to criticize.

Part of that journey means assessing some of the bickering and arguing that goes on in my house. In five years, is it going to matter that the cereal bag wasn’t closed correctly? Is it going to stick out in my head that my husband forgot to put a bag in the trash? Am I going to be scarred for life replaying all the times I picked up clutter that probably didn’t result from me…? No, not really.

So, I’ve decided to give up on a few arguments with my kids that seem pretty pointless. As a first time mom, I harped on these over and over. Now that I am on kid #3, I’ve become a lot more laid back.

Here are five arguments that, going forward, I refused to have with my kids.

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The “Last, First Last” – An Open Letter

The “Last, First Last” – An Open Letter

Dear Mother Who Changed Three Diapers While Screaming At Her Kids Before The Race,

To answer your question, yes – this is “it.” This strong willed, soft-hearted girl is “it” for me. I’m used to hearing “time for another one yet?” and “Aww, you have to have one more!” So, your over-used comments and your tarnished respect for a mother who isn’t just like you (and the majority of mothers) is something I’ve learned to freely let go of.

What struck me is your canned, assumed mindset: “Must be nice!”

Sure, mom of three overly-energized, wild children. In many respects, it is “nice.” It’s “nice” to focus all of my time, attention, and effort on the one, tiny human being who makes me whole. It’s “nice” to put one child in bed and have time to myself immediately afterwards. It’s “nice” to spend my days and nights with one, mostly easy-going little girl who tells me I am her best friend.

All of that is very “nice.”

What you fail to internalize is that pressure I face, brought on solely by father time, to understand that every moment is more fleeting than I realize. There will not be another “first race.” There will likely not be another “first” of anything that has been ironed, folded, and neatly tucked away in dresser drawers of the past.

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Never again will I put her into a jogging stroller for the first time, my hands shaking as I adjust the straps and cover her tiny feet with the blanket she was wrapped in at the hospital.

Never again will I dress her for her very first race, suddenly becoming irate about the size of her shoes and frantically trying to feel my way to where her toes are.

Never again will I whisper the words “It’s your first race ever – this is very special” despite a two year old’s perception of how time actually passes.

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Please respect that every “first” for her and I is every “last first.” Not “the last first with my oldest” or “the last first with my middle child” or “the last first with my third and final baby.” Let that sink in: Every first, is our last first.

We spend moments and days and hours fiercely swimming through and blindly navigating our own lives. Time as mothers becomes measured by the amount of times we are asked the same question or the last ten minutes before bedtime that feel like an utter eternity.

Your “moments” and mine are different. I don’t want your life; I don’t want your moments. I don’t want to corral three kids who can’t stand still for more than four seconds at a time. No, I don’t want to spend two hours per night wrestling multiple children to sleep. You are correct – I would rather have a quiet, clean house to keep my sanity.

But, mom-of-three – I respect your moments. I respect that your cup overflows, sometimes in the most overwhelming of ways, on a daily and an hourly and a minute-to-minute basis. I give you more credit than you realize for getting out of the house and to a kid’s race on time.

And all I am asking for is that same respect. You don’t want to be me, and I don’t want to be you – but making such assumptions about my life and my choices undermines all the very real, raw reasons that went into my decision to make her my one and only.

I don’t expect an apology; I wouldn’t call myself offended. All I ask is that you understand that every decision in motherhood, including the decision to quit making decisions, comes with a price to pay.

You’ll yearn for some sleep, some quiet.

I’ll yearn for one last, poor rendition of “Six Little Ducks” in that pink chair in the nursery, the one stained with the salt of tears and aged with art of persistence.

In the silence or chaos of the early morning hours, I respect your moments and you can respect mine.

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