tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48133523420881317912024-03-05T00:59:25.607-08:00Roaring Mama LionProtecting My Cubs Since 2012Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10399063549286134333noreply@blogger.comBlogger168125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-74981114971193373082022-05-23T11:36:00.002-07:002022-05-23T11:36:57.908-07:00Bluey Makes Me a Better Parent<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Who knew that a seven-minute cartoon could change me so much?</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-36a983f4-7fff-db20-66c7-ea9d77ce96eb"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As our toddler son happily shared a toy SUV and trailer with our friend’s toddler, our friend said, “You haven’t seen Bluey yet? It’s life-changing.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Before I gave into the temptation to order the adorable SUV my two-year-old now obsessed over, we had to watch this cartoon family of Blue Heelers, living in Australia.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And we quickly became obsessed. Our kids learned that asking for “just one more episode” would likely be met with a “yes,” because it’s only seven minutes, right?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After ten years of watching children’s cartoons, we found one that, as parents, we were eager to watch this one. My husband laughs out loud as Bluey and her little sister, Bingo, thwart their dad, Bandit’s, attempts to pick up his takeaway dinner. I giggle as the mom, Chilli, gently teases Bandit, even when immersed in the family’s imaginative play.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For a few weeks we watched and laughed. Our youngest learned that we couldn’t resist when he asked for “Booey and a kicky” (translation: Bluey and a cookie) after bath. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then, after hours of Bluey Immersion, something clicked.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bandit is visibly irritated that Bluey doesn’t want any of her drawings thrown away, when he tries to recycle them, but he takes a breath and explains about how paper is recycled. Chilli plays, but usually finds a way to guide the play in her favor. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">These cartoon dogs are more real than pretty much any parents I’ve seen in children’s programming, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and I want to be more like them</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bandit and Chilli aren’t perfect, and they don’t always have just the right response for each other or for their kids - Bandit goes any entire episode without talking, because he doesn’t talk while camping - but they have responses I can use with my own kids. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can be irritated, but not take that irritation out on my kids.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I can play with them.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In a family favorite episode, “Rug Island,” Chilli gets the kids (pups?) new felt connector pens, and Bluey and Bingo know exactly what to do. They create an island and use the pens for everything from plates to fish to wild animals. My own children became obsessed. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Obviously, I ordered the markers.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On one randomly stormy Spring day, as thunder and lightning boomed and sparked, all of our outdoor afternoon sports were canceled. I took the kids home, set down my bags and said, “Should we play rug island?” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Without pause, my three kids immediately began to collaborate, build a fort, open the pens and set up the plates. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“We don’t have a paddle board,” shouted one.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “We can use a giant pillow,” shouted another.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Before I knew it, they had the entire scene set. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And, hail bursting from the clouds outside, I climbed the stairs and entered their world. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I followed their directions, which mostly required that I climb into the fort and be available for cuddles. I thought like Bandit and Chilli and relaxed into the game, forgetting the laundry waiting for me to fold, ignoring my phone’s faint buzzes. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even after we’d returned to our regular evening routine, the vibe felt different, and instead of television that night, my oldest set up drawing stations, complete with pencils, paper, markers, and a beverage for each of us. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was an amazing experience, and I want more of it, so much more of it. And I know I can change my patterns and give my family this dedicated time.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bluey, as it turns out, is life-changing. And all it takes is seven minutes.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3M7nTwg6Y-bl7hvaS9N6qD3zr9hAaSrvR9LLZYfgEKMNtBtgx_yE0IozGIxkXv2V-frnylpoEUVgA5YwoImQlk9PbibfiCukC7nc-yoeLql7_F0Wto2ilIsKEF_Mxx0lftgWULVUAIEdUsghNPIsgrvrYGiQCcre1VdWqVKU75R4swIX0mD2IXg2w/s1080/BlueyMom.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3M7nTwg6Y-bl7hvaS9N6qD3zr9hAaSrvR9LLZYfgEKMNtBtgx_yE0IozGIxkXv2V-frnylpoEUVgA5YwoImQlk9PbibfiCukC7nc-yoeLql7_F0Wto2ilIsKEF_Mxx0lftgWULVUAIEdUsghNPIsgrvrYGiQCcre1VdWqVKU75R4swIX0mD2IXg2w/s320/BlueyMom.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><br /><br /></span>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-45040355879417412592022-02-24T09:39:00.002-08:002022-02-24T09:39:30.275-08:00All He Wants is All of Me<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">We sat on the porch of our rental beach house, just after my toddler had woken from his nap. He burrowed into my chest, took a deep breath, and listened to the sounds of the waves with me.</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-3c2d40d0-7fff-3a73-ba3b-c228d9e9d3af"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My husband looked up to make sure I was okay, that I was okay not putting together a puzzle with the rest of the group. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I was perfect.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He was right to check in with me, though. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I was a first-time mom, I definitely resented missing out on conversations, meals, games, the freedom of not having a child in my lap. Though I’d wanted to be a mom for my entire life, I had not anticipated the crushing loneliness of being one of just a handful of friends who had a child. The rushing off to nurse or change a diaper or handle a tantrum wore on me. I felt like I’d lost a lot of myself, even while finding a new version of me.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Motherhood came more smoothly to me with our second, as I had some idea of what to expect. But no one could prepare me for the exhaustion that comes with chasing a toddler and handling a cheerful infant who simply won’t sleep. I remain convinced that I did not get REM sleep for the first 18 months of my daughter’s life. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m grateful that my husband still remembers those more challenging moments in parenting for me. He may have shared in the sleepless nights, but our children have always needed me more during their waking hours. I don’t know if that will always be true, but it’s our current reality. I am the one who has given up time with friends and family, and as someone who leans towards being an introvert, that sense of missing out took me by surprise. When I </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">had </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">to step away from social events, I resented the loss.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With our third child, though, everything has shifted. With our first, I didn’t know how to be a mom, at all. With our second, I was struggling with my own sense of self as I became absorbed by motherhood and also faced the loss of my own mom. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our third is the youngest by four-and-a-half years. No one other child is in diapers. The older children can be reasoned with and talked back into bed in the middle of the night. My oldest even asks for more and more time with his friends.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For the first time, I feel like I can simply enjoy being a mama to a toddler who needs me so completely. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That evening on the porch, he pulled my arms closer around his body. I kissed the top of his head and realized that all he wants is all of me. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I have that available to give.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At times, I feel a sense of guilt that this baby is getting a completely different version of me than my older children. I’ll always be learning about new stages and phases with my oldest. My daughter is the middle child, having to learn patience between two brothers. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With my youngest, I’m more comfortable with being a mom, with saying no to an evening out or an event that isn’t toddler friendly. I see friends taking extended child-free vacations, and while I know I’ll get back to those someday, I would rather be around my kids, especially a toddler who is changing day-by-day. I don’t want to miss any of his new words, new skills, or the moments of joy throughout his day. I want his hugs as much as he wants me to sing him to sleep each night.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All he wants is all of me, and I’m happy to hold him close and give him the attention he needs. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m grateful that I’ve finally found the rhythm of being a toddler mom and let this sweet boy crawl into my lap for as long as he needs.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We sat on the porch of our rental beach house, just after my toddler had woken from his nap. He burrowed into my chest, took a deep breath, and listened to the sounds of the waves with me.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgGejRhicFchlc7l0ECjXiCQv7zrOibwW_3TenMGAU4Ixpu15H98MO5-nUIMrm-V4UjOK5fyzsGHI__hiNe1e6hMTyvKRtjE9JiTH32QH6RGJnYpB5-hKuAI8GarKkX-cMxlrai5KyNkvCT1oP3KhxXLGQUQyhku-tyZAFTIUwUAPMOkQ3OUzLSGB5G=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgGejRhicFchlc7l0ECjXiCQv7zrOibwW_3TenMGAU4Ixpu15H98MO5-nUIMrm-V4UjOK5fyzsGHI__hiNe1e6hMTyvKRtjE9JiTH32QH6RGJnYpB5-hKuAI8GarKkX-cMxlrai5KyNkvCT1oP3KhxXLGQUQyhku-tyZAFTIUwUAPMOkQ3OUzLSGB5G=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><br /></span>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-36841102981365033912022-02-14T14:57:00.000-08:002022-02-14T14:57:00.079-08:00On Mothering Without a Mother<p>I recently published an article about <a href="https://herviewfromhome.com/i-never-doubted-my-mothers-love/">my own mother's love for me</a> on Her View From Home.</p><p>This article is a work of love, and it was also cathartic to write.</p><p>I've written about and struggled with the idea of being a mom without my mom around. Five years after her death, I still want to call her or text her every single day. </p><p>I want to tell her about the toddler's new words - who wouldn't want to know that he begs to "Tay ou-side!" when asked to come inside at almost any point during the day?</p><p>I want to ask her for guidance on handling my daughter's big emotions, since I can't always relate.</p><p>I want to tell her how proud she should be of my oldest for the good choices he's making and how comfortable he is talking to us about any challenges he faces.</p><p>There's the religious side of me that <i>knows she knows</i>, but I miss the feedback. I will never not need my mom. </p><p>I'm thinking of her today, because she loved holidays. She always made me feel loved on Valentine's Day. While I wondered if I would ever find a partner to love me in the way I wanted to be loved, I never doubted that I had love, that I was loved. </p><p>Because of my mom, Valentine's Day has always been about more than romantic love. </p><p>And that feeling remains, long into adulthood, and half a decade after her death.</p><p>Hopefully, I can give that same sense of warmth and comfort to my own children. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0Gq1AKbUW0PTgucudhJSWXA0YCNjcLdvQrEKGbmvAI73a05wnZCMyGmHHTE3CWCBifNoMrBarYxi4k-2WSVkBu_pFcy4jsjYGuX4ag9g9PbQbuZ3uHYRRX24ZB4x7naR3pjS4vcmUjWV2xBnfR_SFZIDSEAXk8UQn4AqFF0UAOcucE9libXLaKu29=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0Gq1AKbUW0PTgucudhJSWXA0YCNjcLdvQrEKGbmvAI73a05wnZCMyGmHHTE3CWCBifNoMrBarYxi4k-2WSVkBu_pFcy4jsjYGuX4ag9g9PbQbuZ3uHYRRX24ZB4x7naR3pjS4vcmUjWV2xBnfR_SFZIDSEAXk8UQn4AqFF0UAOcucE9libXLaKu29=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-57295449474789420062022-02-08T15:00:00.003-08:002022-02-08T15:00:54.171-08:00Back on the Fitness Track<p>In addition to my life as a mom, teacher, and writer, I have another big hobby: fitness.</p><p>I used to be a runner, I was big into half-marathons and other races, and I <a href="http://www.roaringmamalion.com/2014/04/running-new-kind-of-race.html">even wrote about them</a>. Things shifted for me after I had my daughter, mostly because <a href="http://www.roaringmamalion.com/2015/06/a-newborn-training-program.html">she hated the stroller</a>. I had a great fitness routine as a mama of one, but that second baby threw me for a loop...a loop I never quite got out of.</p><p>When<a href="http://www.roaringmamalion.com/2016/02/when-i-stopped-running-even-though-i.html"> running slowly faded from my life</a>, I tried to find other ways to keep in shape, and life simply handed me more and more challenges. Career demands shifted. My mom got sick(er). For a moment in time, I figured out how to fit in visits to the gym before picking up the kids, but those visits got shorter, and finally, the pandemic closed my gym. I had excuses, and I had reasons. Whatever they were, they changed my fitness life. I can look back and see I've had a series of really complex, challenging years. I'm trying to grant myself some grace around that.</p><p>With a newborn, a pre-schooler, and an elementary kiddo at home during the pandemic, I knew I needed something for myself, so I invested in what I lovingly called the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B082X4YRN3/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_search_asin_title?ie=UTF8&psc=1">fauxleton</a>. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-SHrR2j2_2Wj5BKMnarq_NEZKAtu919px0nJGwIo2NktuHROiU6YE8d0udu4jrTfiHqSzr94Zo9YWrg59OIn_pkY0Q2L9SoZL9nB7wkjz-9sIuLl8iJy94mibBROtzmsM8PW1fg5bK8LNdEQTM6iZyBIEULqdN9WQwnfplALS7UoEB6rtar0qxFPG=s1160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="870" data-original-width="1160" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-SHrR2j2_2Wj5BKMnarq_NEZKAtu919px0nJGwIo2NktuHROiU6YE8d0udu4jrTfiHqSzr94Zo9YWrg59OIn_pkY0Q2L9SoZL9nB7wkjz-9sIuLl8iJy94mibBROtzmsM8PW1fg5bK8LNdEQTM6iZyBIEULqdN9WQwnfplALS7UoEB6rtar0qxFPG=s320" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I joined the <a href="https://www.onepeloton.com/app?utm_campaign=26629827&utm_content=315508484&utm_medium=search&utm_source=google_search&gclid=Cj0KCQiAxoiQBhCRARIsAPsvo-zR3Y3wszAtM8xYdXGQecjbf0__fmRbyJOwG6mAdiRYdJnt1Wc7t0caAkcXEALw_wcB">Peloton</a><a href="https://www.onepeloton.com/app?utm_campaign=26629827&utm_content=315508484&utm_medium=search&utm_source=google_search&gclid=Cj0KCQiAxoiQBhCRARIsAPsvo-zR3Y3wszAtM8xYdXGQecjbf0__fmRbyJOwG6mAdiRYdJnt1Wc7t0caAkcXEALw_wcB"> App</a> during a free promotion, and I started riding. In addition to countless afternoon hikes during those early days of the pandemic, I carved out time for rides, strength workouts, and even yoga. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYtBZ6P-qnsjgDYrww7311Yc2-5ecIqr-i9hoKGoKiJMtPMR2gbzBsLl-tf1-HT1Prqe6oIyH0dEL35gOh3c03aaGA9JZngP6bjQ38KjHRJ8WxX9_6hATfb0XtHLCHUB4_ZUWdDlPTlqhrfDrvhBGFIWc2mgWtzx6uxuZcBETh5Rbxopz4znWxoX6k=s785" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="785" data-original-width="589" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYtBZ6P-qnsjgDYrww7311Yc2-5ecIqr-i9hoKGoKiJMtPMR2gbzBsLl-tf1-HT1Prqe6oIyH0dEL35gOh3c03aaGA9JZngP6bjQ38KjHRJ8WxX9_6hATfb0XtHLCHUB4_ZUWdDlPTlqhrfDrvhBGFIWc2mgWtzx6uxuZcBETh5Rbxopz4znWxoX6k=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My body changed. I really started to heal from having my third kiddo. That summer was full of hiking and swimming and tucking into our family activities. And then we hit the hybrid school insanity of the 2020-2021 school year. I sat too much and weakened my back, then that weakness turned into actual injury, which took three months of careful recovery. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By January of 2021, I was anxious and uncomfortable. I reached out to my friend, Katy, who has her own nutrition business, <a href="https://www.macrolytes.com/">Macrolytes</a>. She offered some tips and tricks for how to better nourish my body, and I made changes. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The weeks and months went on. My back stayed healed, and my food routines changed. By summer, I felt strong and confident, even if the numbers on the scale remained mostly unchanged. At least I had routines again!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In November, I had the opportunity to purchase a used Peloton. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And it's been a game changer.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgO8nFrehqF-wBRIbtRPD4baKDNA7vb-MaXS4-qRLcuG7J_IrCp9--W97Yw2F4BGMGz51BTFb82W7WX0sS8OfrJGRrl8gwG_2oFCKT8ioBOzxzlw-8maT-xODY4kWK6SIEJF8Gt35hgVwne5nTzA7911MHN1K13HP96leTmFhsv61YphTNMIcEcvEwX=s870" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="870" data-original-width="652" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgO8nFrehqF-wBRIbtRPD4baKDNA7vb-MaXS4-qRLcuG7J_IrCp9--W97Yw2F4BGMGz51BTFb82W7WX0sS8OfrJGRrl8gwG_2oFCKT8ioBOzxzlw-8maT-xODY4kWK6SIEJF8Gt35hgVwne5nTzA7911MHN1K13HP96leTmFhsv61YphTNMIcEcvEwX=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By mid-December, I'd doubled my total number of rides taken since I joined the app in March 2020. Six weeks...150 rides. The Peloton really does feel different to me - the ride is smoother, the seat is more comfortable, and the big screen is 100% better than watching rides on my phone. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In addition to a routine I actually stick too, what I've missed though, without realizing it, was the competition I used to have in running. While the live rides don't often fit into my complex work life/mom life schedule, I do love seeing where I rank against all-time riders. I also appreciate the monthly challenges and knowing how many miles I've ridden. I keep finding new instructors, go back to favorites, and enjoy creating the perfect balance of rides on any given day - sometimes a 30 minute ride is exactly right, and others I need to build a 5, 20, 5 ride...same numbers, totally different experience.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm inching towards my fitness goals, but for the first long stretch since before I had my daughter (and she's in first grade...), I feel back on track. I have clear, reachable goals. I have a form of exercise that makes me happy. I can fit exercise into my life without feeling anxious or annoyed at the imposition of it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm back to creating and honoring this space for myself, and it's making everyone around me happier, too.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'd call that a win-win.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjvbVAdLbjif9W_GtjA7x-FfWcnHYKVsskRNee3CFNNdwbXhtbKs8yTM2v2oTfnzhZypueTyqZKQKe9k_XRjiwJdgf3UnEs7sEivXHRV9fqiXYpjBSQiVeue7Ibc17_yQ1jQ17Np0Tz58KmhIe2U1I-UaJUIwBxomUhi9uqvQI814SU7V0RbuL5cxD=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjvbVAdLbjif9W_GtjA7x-FfWcnHYKVsskRNee3CFNNdwbXhtbKs8yTM2v2oTfnzhZypueTyqZKQKe9k_XRjiwJdgf3UnEs7sEivXHRV9fqiXYpjBSQiVeue7Ibc17_yQ1jQ17Np0Tz58KmhIe2U1I-UaJUIwBxomUhi9uqvQI814SU7V0RbuL5cxD=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-27515719058720350352022-01-11T13:58:00.002-08:002022-01-11T13:58:41.298-08:00Down the Rabbit Hole<p>Our kids teach us so much, and lately, watching my kids, I'm reminded of how I pursued my own passions as a child.</p><p>Over Winter Break, we stuck well to<a href="http://www.roaringmamalion.com/2021/12/ten-tips-to-successful-winter-break-i.html"> our little schedule</a> and more or less tucked into a bubble within our home. That meant that my kids had oodles of time to dive deep into anything they wanted to do.</p><p>My oldest doodled around on the piano, learning Luisa's song "Under Pressure," and followed his deep and abiding love for Lego building. He became mildly obsessed with building World War II Lego scenes, which resulted in a deep dive into children's books about World War II and some cool conversations about my own family's involvement in the war (as an aside, I wrote a YA book loosely based on family experiences, and, maybe someday, the world will get to see it!). He attended camp for a couple of days and learned how to play foosball...so, naturally, he came home and built a working foosball Lego table. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_ojCESfH6Fgm6wBSbJU4tyLLzmY-fIUJCFRJC6UR2amSYcSYapoSKMejm12m3UzP_C6h1ZJ55xfrD6xj1-vCe2E7hqQIu_jVJgj0KGAj4YNCD1WPhs34laxBgNIErKCZrG7sOffyuCFQitHQIfCVRxCeg3KeP-p26vBqROfl0sPqx5GB94TeXjbk7=s870" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="870" data-original-width="652" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_ojCESfH6Fgm6wBSbJU4tyLLzmY-fIUJCFRJC6UR2amSYcSYapoSKMejm12m3UzP_C6h1ZJ55xfrD6xj1-vCe2E7hqQIu_jVJgj0KGAj4YNCD1WPhs34laxBgNIErKCZrG7sOffyuCFQitHQIfCVRxCeg3KeP-p26vBqROfl0sPqx5GB94TeXjbk7=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This isn't just a big ole list of what my kid did over Winter Break, it's a journey into how his brain works, and how I'd like mine to work, too. When he's interested in something, he follows that interest down a wide and winding path. He dives down the rabbit hole, and I totally admire that trait. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">With my own fractured, working-mom mind, I spend more of my hobby time watching ridiculous reels on Instagram (or, as I describe them to my husband, "dumb tiktok videos," because that's the same thing) than I do pursuing my actual interests.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A goal I have for myself this year - a multi-faceted goal - is to actually pursue my interests. This doesn't mean that I need to go out and buy a million new supplies for a hobby, but it does mean I need to read beyond the first book in a series before moving on to something else. It also means that if I'm interested in a topic, whether it's a musical artist or an art project, I should <i>let myself</i> fall into it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I've gotten started. I'm reading the second in the <a href="https://www.napabookmine.com/search/author/%22Chambers%2C%20Becky%22">Wayfarer Series by Becky Chambers</a> and have other sequels to other series in mind. I'm insisting that when we start a movie as a family, we finish that movie before we move onto a new one. I'm hoping to pull all the fractured parts together and make my mind into the fine tuned machine it once was.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And do you know? It's working. When I settle in to read a book with characters I already know, or a writer's familiar writing style, it feels good. When I picked up the yarn to finger knit for a <i>second time </i>(gasp), I liked that I had a better grasp on what I was doing. I like that, over break, we <i>finished</i> a home improvement project by painting a single wall and installing a plant shelf - a fairly simple task that had eluded us for months. I'm getting back to feeling satisfied by my interests and pursuits.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I admire how my son picks up an interest and actually follows it. He's always got a few threads of interest trailing behind him, at varying levels, but he's not constantly picking up something knew. He allows himself to dive in and really learn about a topic, whether it's fishing, making working Lego machines, or improving his soccer skills. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My children teach me constantly, and I want to actively take on this lesson my firstborn teaches me daily.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Here's hoping I can feed myself with more than quick videos on social media and pursue interests with the same interest as a fourth-grader with no responsibilities. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEiT5yMXJRs-OYmPm4fwW6nzbvQ8zttXmOqTZ2k3FxscVpKDFsi9UuCxJEMqTuJBtAgskLSN7MLWMEaAbFcsDS9hCmUSqGa4tCoq76WtNPZAmhsYJcH-5GBZhwuaMXK5DkMfT0MDCKjZ015yVZ2vyEsg2IvuEx6EM0gxcal75HRtNCZ_Ua4P-T5PS7=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEiT5yMXJRs-OYmPm4fwW6nzbvQ8zttXmOqTZ2k3FxscVpKDFsi9UuCxJEMqTuJBtAgskLSN7MLWMEaAbFcsDS9hCmUSqGa4tCoq76WtNPZAmhsYJcH-5GBZhwuaMXK5DkMfT0MDCKjZ015yVZ2vyEsg2IvuEx6EM0gxcal75HRtNCZ_Ua4P-T5PS7=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-3032151163350377492021-12-17T12:19:00.002-08:002021-12-17T12:19:59.412-08:00Ten Tips to a Successful Winter Break (I Hope)<p>I am about to embark on three weeks off with my children, all three of them. </p><p>Our school district offers a longer break than most, and it's easy to sink into life away from school, but I have to keep at the forefront of my mind that my kids need to be ready to get back to a routine in January.</p><p>It was hard enough heading back to school and work after one week off at Thanksgiving (hello, getting to work at the exact minute I need to be there...whoops). </p><p>So, these tips are as much for me as for anyone else. </p><p>1. <b>Keep a reasonable bedtime routine</b>. This is the easiest routine to break when none of us has to be a functional human in the morning. My husband will remind me that <i>he still has to go to work</i>, and that will help tremendously, but I need to remember that getting lax around bedtime doesn't help any of us.</p><p>2. <b>Limit the treats</b>. Ugh. As with the first tip, this applies to me, as much as to my kids. Once the baking goes into full effect next week, our access to delicious treats will double, triple...quadruple. I need to remember that none of us benefits from mass quantities of sugar. </p><p>3. <b>Underplan</b>. My whole family is exhausted from the demands of the first half of the school year. This was as close to a return to normalcy as we may get, and we definitely packed our calendar. Now, we need to take the opportunity to...do nothing. Not everyone has this opportunity. My oldest wants to build endless World War II Lego scenes (it's a whole thing), and my middle one just wants to bake and watch holiday movies. The toddler wants to race cars and be held. That's the bulk of my holiday plans for them.</p><p>4. <b>Say No to tech based homework</b>. I realize that this may not apply to everyone, but I'm not enforcing the school's request to do 20 minutes a day for two separate programs for each day of break - 100 minutes a week?? No, thank you. </p><p>5. <b>Read lots of books</b>. I mean, it's not shocking that I want to read lots of books, as I am a total word nerd who loves immersing myself into different worlds. Cozy winter days (yes, even the Bay Area has cozy, cold winter days) call for coco and cuddles on the couch with good books. Bonus: this actually serves the purpose of some of the homework elementary teachers call for, but in a different package that feels less like homework.</p><p>6. <b>Keep a daily routine</b>. This applies in summer, as well. I'm going to try to hit our rhythm from day one this year with a dependable routine. For us, this will likely look like breakfast, chores, any out-of-the-house activities, lunch and a baking show, quiet time (a long winter's nap for the toddler...maybe a workout for me), tea time, and then a normal family dinner time routine after my husband gets home. My kiddos appreciate structure, and it's largely up to me to at least create the scaffolding of a daily routine.</p><p>7. <b>Listen to the kids</b>. All of the above aside, the kids will let me know what works and what doesn't. I'm hoping that I've taken into account their fondest school year desires (MORE LEGO TIME, PLEASE) and added them into the vacation days, but I know there will be something else I need to honor. Soccer in the park? Sure. Long walks with the dog? Let's make it happen.</p><p>8. <b>Remember the small magic</b>. I find it all too easy to get caught up in making the holiday season magic (that's a whole thing, too), and I have to remember that the tiny pieces of magic are not so tiny to my kids. The days of baking. The cheesy holiday movies. The lights on the mantle. All of those, perhaps even more than the presents, make this time of year special for my family.</p><p>9. <b>Take time for myself</b>. Overstimulation and the desire to keep my kids entertained and engaged can sometimes come at the expense of the quiet time I also need. We have all been overwhelmed and stressed, and I need to remember myself as we get some relief from a hard season.</p><p>10. <b>Close out the holidays before we head back</b>. We will have two weeks of break after Christmas, which gives us time to set our lives back to "normal." Fall is our <a href="http://www.roaringmamalion.com/2021/11/the-tough-season.html" target="_blank">hard season</a> and then we head straight on into the holidays. In January, we can catch our breath, and if we start the new year with a tidied home, solid routines, and rested minds and bodies, I'm hoping we will set ourselves up for success.</p><p>So, there we go, a list of goals for myself - and maybe for others - to help make these next few weeks feel awesome!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAOfnne21EiPwGSyE4ZRl4ZW50ggD2xsv_7Xhwx_s-3DwZMVgD_d8yIHMuuy7nc2OXAGRc9IEc3_b-_QHKELuyGTSpP1_5l9-FPA1-PD96csZUdwV9NsoIDEkZRgCsIhz5kjrpaHHaf0-IyxZYiiJWl94KtKufOjy5zxE6FVcq3FDWKiGPFv_u6Nhq=s940" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="940" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAOfnne21EiPwGSyE4ZRl4ZW50ggD2xsv_7Xhwx_s-3DwZMVgD_d8yIHMuuy7nc2OXAGRc9IEc3_b-_QHKELuyGTSpP1_5l9-FPA1-PD96csZUdwV9NsoIDEkZRgCsIhz5kjrpaHHaf0-IyxZYiiJWl94KtKufOjy5zxE6FVcq3FDWKiGPFv_u6Nhq=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-9452862119748541482021-12-13T11:25:00.000-08:002021-12-13T11:25:06.720-08:00Saying No<p><i> "I said no to something today!" I say enthusiastically to my husband.</i></p><p><i>"Oh yeah? Tell me about it."</i></p><p>I am the queen of overcommitting. I have my reasons, a blend of a need to be helpful, a love of being busy, and, to be fair, sometimes the extra income that comes along with certain opportunities.</p><p>But that overcommitting leads to stress, anxiety, and frustration, for my family, friends, and colleagues. </p><p>When I'm drowning in a task list I've filled myself, I miss details, I run late, and I am easily irritated. </p><p>Regardless of the reasons why I stay so busy, this <i>level</i> of busy isn't healthy.</p><p>My husband shared his own frustrations. My kids asked for a slower pace of life. My friends asked for more meaningful time spent together. </p><p><b>And, so, I am changing.</b></p><p>It's not easy. I love saying yes. I love taking on an extra work responsibility. I love attending friends' kiddo's performances. I love having guests for dinner.</p><p>But, the more I say no, the more I realize how much I was missing in all of the clutter of saying yes.</p><p>When I say no, we have time at home on a weekend to catch up on house projects.</p><p>When I say no, I have the time to write card to each of my 160 students before Winter Break.</p><p>When I say no, I don't feel stressed about sitting with my kids and helping them with their math homework or settling in on the couch to watch a cheesy holiday movie.</p><p><i><b>Wow, having some breathing room means that I can give more attention to what does make it onto my calendar. </b></i></p><p>The pressure really came off this week as I finished a college Spanish course (someone remind me not to sign up for more college classes anytime soon), and I could come up for air and sort files, put together Christmas gifts for my kids' teachers, and give attention to friends who could use some extra love. </p><p>The problem here? I keep relearning this lesson, season after season, and I don't know when it will stick.</p><p>My high school journals include highlighted goals to get to bed earlier and put less on my calendar. How have I been learning this lesson for (unrevealed number of) years?</p><p>I can say that this time feels different. This time, saying no has meant that intentional moments to exercise have reappeared in my life, and I can see the difference in my body and feel the change in my mental health. </p><p>I've moved beyond saying no when I feel obligated to say yes. This time I'm saying no to things that I actually want to do, and that's a big difference. I can tell that the lesson has really started to stick.</p><p>In the past, I've felt guilty about having less stress. Beyond the desire to say yes. Beyond the need to feel busy. I thought I had to be busy. </p><p>Now, I'm sinking into this slower pace. And my little bubble will be better because of it.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUax_W9FB-i-LOIb0LhJaBa5pmcOnQ3kNjIqWf2_V5-YAwAX-VNb3gUW4rzfID8TqfzoIM144fzKl4T2Z3oIOyyWy_-wMrZykZxCAX6v9Wb_qmxn1uPFcgkmLtn2IXNQsex33KyA0W3XI6n6-UxEiC0YkJMCq0_W5pjGbWvEFeIrlqyoUepFJ-QSOL=s940" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="940" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUax_W9FB-i-LOIb0LhJaBa5pmcOnQ3kNjIqWf2_V5-YAwAX-VNb3gUW4rzfID8TqfzoIM144fzKl4T2Z3oIOyyWy_-wMrZykZxCAX6v9Wb_qmxn1uPFcgkmLtn2IXNQsex33KyA0W3XI6n6-UxEiC0YkJMCq0_W5pjGbWvEFeIrlqyoUepFJ-QSOL=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-63501059517084511262021-12-06T13:50:00.002-08:002021-12-06T13:50:25.219-08:00The Magic Makers<p> I can feel it just starting to slip, this magic, as my oldest asks questions that poke at the edges of the mystery.</p><p>"Do you believe in Santa, Mom?"</p><p>"Why does Santa only bring stocking gifts?"</p><p>He knows and doesn't know. He suspects, but he's not sure he wants the answer. He's in 4th grade, and I know that his peers are starting to deconstruct Christmas. I'm sure a lot of the magic was never part of some of their traditions, and that's okay. It's no other family's job to keep up my family's traditions.</p><p>But it's just another in a long series of transitions that no one can quite prepare us for.</p><p>The Covid-19 lockdown definitely slowed down a lot of the growing up, and I don't mind that part of it, but here we are, back to "normal," and on we proceed with the steady march to adolescence.</p><p>It's hard, but I'm resisting the urge to double-down the magic, in fact, I realized that if I add too many layers, there's no way the magic can stand, and even the little ones may start to have questions. It was a big enough risk to add in a Kindness Elf.</p><p>The daily magic of our special friend is precarious, but my kids are both into it. Because this isn't the "official" elf, the rules can be bent a bit. They decided they can move our elf if they put gloves on, and they love to leave him gifts and set up little scenes - he drives the Lego truck my magical oldest built for him. He wrote his list for Santa. He keeps asking when St. Nick will bring him a new book. He's full of excitement and questions.</p><p>But there's something there, when my nine-year-old talks of the magic. It's almost too much belief. </p><p>And I remember that in myself. I remember that desire for no one else to know that I was questioning things. I'd speak in a too loud voice about Santa. I'd strategically ignore the labels my grandma wrote on the inside of gifts from Santa - she desperately wanted me to stop believing...</p><p>I notice these same behaviors in my oldest child. It's a melancholy transition, and I'm not prepared for it.</p><p>But, oh, sweet boy, I see you. I know you're not ready to talk about it, but I know you're starting to question. It's okay, when you're ready, we will bring you into the fold of the magicians. You'll be a magic maker, and I know you will love it.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7vMQeGSCW0loWUf6oCYTI30fD5XUjIt7DhJ1wtKQ-BEviyUkIBiMoi8MRgRzZ5EoSRWmtEE2Ko4kvGbkYVWfXlNGyG6gR0pbDmwbLnUTnDL76OLaFoOpkf7xOgRcb1DIZeCESyma0CCk/s1080/Magic+Maker.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7vMQeGSCW0loWUf6oCYTI30fD5XUjIt7DhJ1wtKQ-BEviyUkIBiMoi8MRgRzZ5EoSRWmtEE2Ko4kvGbkYVWfXlNGyG6gR0pbDmwbLnUTnDL76OLaFoOpkf7xOgRcb1DIZeCESyma0CCk/s320/Magic+Maker.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-14133640398124877172021-11-17T14:02:00.001-08:002021-11-17T14:04:41.314-08:00The Tough Season<p>Fall is a challenging time for our family - and by fall, I mean mid-August through mid-November. At this time of year <i>everything</i> hits us. It's the time of year when my husband "disappears" into his work (he has a demanding job all year round, but it's inflexible during these three months). I'm starting a new school year. The kiddos start new grades and adjust to new teachers, new classmates, and a return to the school routine. We also have our beloved soccer season.</p><p>Taken independently, any one of these demands would feel challenging, but piled on together, it's a flood. </p><p>You would think that nearly a decade into handling these demands as parents, we would have it mastered...and you would be wrong.</p><p>In Fall, I tuck my head and run, pushing emotions to the side. It's <i>super</i> healthy. I simply don't have the time or the space to handle my own emotions. Family dinner becomes a rush of quick check-ins with the kids and then a transition to the bedtime process. Couples conversation? Pshawwww, in Fall, we are all about the checklist conversation. What tasks need to be completed? What appliances are broken (because, invariably, during this time of year, we have one broken appliance)? What other mini-emergency do we need to tackle? </p><p>Fall is survival mode.</p><p>And it's not pretty.</p><p>We are two weeks out of our "tough season," I finally feel slightly recovered. Granted, having a fully functional washing machine has a lot to do with that. I feel recovered enough to know where we went wrong <i>this time - </i>each year's errors are delightfully different.</p><p>Here's my checklist for our next tough season, whether it's our usual time of year or something brand new.</p><p></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li><b>Avoid overcommitting </b>- maybe it was the "return to normal" after months of pandemic panic, or maybe it was my tendency to say yes to all the things, but the anxiety inducing pace of our schedule added to the insanity.</li><li><b>Make time to talk to your partner</b> - I do have a partner in my life, and we did not make time for real conversations over the tough season. We got up, went to work, raced through after-work commitments, ate together, and after getting the kids to bed, zoned out to TV. I don't fault us for the choice, but I want to be more intentional about that time together next time.</li><li><b>Schedule downtime </b>- a close cousin to the first item on the list, but different. This isn't only about limiting commitments, it's about not having any at all. We all feel so much better after a weekend day at home, and I need to remember that.</li><li><b>Get enough sleep</b> - or, maybe I should say, go to bed on time. When I sacrifice sleep to get through my to do list, no one is happy, and the same is true for my whole family. This year, the kids actually <i>asked</i> to go to bed earlier, and that adjusted the adult bedtime, too. We are better people when we go to bed on time.</li><li><b>Ask for help</b> - sometimes I'm more successful than others - at one point, I asked for help on a chore, and only the toddler helped, but at least I'm getting better at asking. Whether I need help with a kiddo pick up, need a break from bedtime, or need a helper with household chores, striking martyr from my list of characteristics is crucial. I cannot do <i>everything</i>, and it's okay to say so.</li></ol><div>I know there are dozens more ways I can change how we handle our tough seasons, and I also know was one of our <b>toughest</b> seasons. Taking only five ideas into the future feels like something I can manage.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, cheers to walking out of the tough season...straight into the holiday season.</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLTWmcZKOZ_pW9P4CsAnd27RHNdM4-aAoij4V33FPTbjNYQln6ukAmIVM9yUW-Ju4jvCmvsh6uDt6HXktDfS-qAPAqrbU45XqgrA6n_2IdTH-hoOInN5ElfRzqxO_KKR3ysVk11_lNCWM/s1080/Tough+Season+%25281%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLTWmcZKOZ_pW9P4CsAnd27RHNdM4-aAoij4V33FPTbjNYQln6ukAmIVM9yUW-Ju4jvCmvsh6uDt6HXktDfS-qAPAqrbU45XqgrA6n_2IdTH-hoOInN5ElfRzqxO_KKR3ysVk11_lNCWM/s320/Tough+Season+%25281%2529.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-20845934297540142532021-11-10T12:31:00.002-08:002021-11-10T12:31:24.310-08:00The Veteran New Parent<p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">As a teenager, I fully absorbed the stories of my parents and their friends, the couples who fell </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-9843d147-7fff-24fb-eb74-94188ce7c829"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">in love in high school or soon after, got married, had babies young, and moved on to pursue their dreams. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My own story didn’t play out quite that way, and I turned 32 when my first child was six months old. I was never exactly a “young parent,” even while being a new parent. Fast forward nine years, and I’m once again a “new” parent, with my youngest about to turn two, but I’m also a veteran. It’s unexpected territory based on the novels I expected my life to follow.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Since our little one is fully a toddler, we have successfully navigated the waters of sleep training, starting solids, and moving out of the infant car seat. In our near future is the transition to preschool and the trauma-inducing (to me, not to my child…) departure from the crib, and, someday (soon? please?), potty training.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Raising a third child, raising a toddler in my 40s means that I have a clear sense of the basic milestones. I know when certain phases </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">should </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">end. But everything is still new for my little one. Just because I’m a “veteran” parent, it doesn’t mean I’m also not a new parent. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While I can measure my third little wilding’s milestones against those of his siblings - he’s exactly on par or slightly ahead on everything but talking, which is no surprise since we all know what he needs, when he needs it and also fully comprehend that when he loses complete control of his tongue, he wants a banana - I am also in the midst of raising a baby during a pandemic. This kiddo skipped daycare entirely thanks to a combination of my own fear and a </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">grandparent willing to take on childcare responsibilities. I’m new to sending a two-year-old to preschool, when he has no daycare experience. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The experts in my life seem to respect my needs and concerns more now that I am an “experienced” parent. Medical professionals don’t blink when I tell them about each child’s particular set of needs - they don’t question that I understand my own children, while as a first-time parent, my observations were always questioned. Friends reach out when their children reach a phase that my children have already passed through - I’ve become an expert, in my own right, but I’m still new.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even though the vaccine schedule and the milestones haven’t changed in the more than nine years since I was a first-time parent, I’m still new to so much. I’m new to being the parent of three children, new to juggling three schedules, new to communicating with three different teachers. I’m new to three bedtimes, three little voices while I drive, three sets of dietary demands. I’m new to experiencing “the big kid years” alongside the toddler years.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Honestly, aren’t we all new, all the time? Each day, each year, each phase, we must encounter for the first time. As parents, we are constantly encountering the unexpected and learning how to manage them with grace (we hope). </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mSN-DsCKwfygQkpOQWzokImBVubFHu0gGdYwerkDD234PvmFojDUKG0D7zgQm0MjMjLnKXcD1C-1mtWS6C1yk2sCjubfezKtuJ9KKICKQxZGdTgaBjK43t8mKJ-3yyv4TlB_TTpxMVc/s1080/VeteranNewParent.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mSN-DsCKwfygQkpOQWzokImBVubFHu0gGdYwerkDD234PvmFojDUKG0D7zgQm0MjMjLnKXcD1C-1mtWS6C1yk2sCjubfezKtuJ9KKICKQxZGdTgaBjK43t8mKJ-3yyv4TlB_TTpxMVc/s320/VeteranNewParent.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><br /><br /><br /></span>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-56132079613701203712021-10-28T15:17:00.004-07:002021-10-28T15:18:31.111-07:00Second Hand Fashionista<p>Over a year ago, our community launched a Buy Nothing Group. The overall purpose of the group (don't quote me) is to encourage minimalism, reduce waste, and share our resources. While the group has had a huge positive impact on my life - from playdates with families in the group to feeling the satisfaction of meeting someone's need - my wardrobe has definitely benefited.</p><p>I've received three or four traveling boxes of clothing in my size. Each time, I've taken what works, passed on what doesn't, and also added in some of my own clothes that are no longer bringing me joy - thanks Marie Kondo. I've updated my wardrobe through my early post-partum days through working entirely at home to returning to full-time in person work - I have lived in very different bodies throughout the last two years, and I'm incredibly grateful that each transition didn't necessitate a budget-busting wardrobe.</p><p>But really? </p><p>Second Hand Fashion is an inspiration palette for my first grader. She is my fashion icon. No matter what colors and patterns she combines, <i>it works</i>. And what a diverse set of clothes she has to work with, from little business jackets to polka-dot tights. Ankle boots and jellies. Hoodies and leopard print coats. My six-year-old is living my childhood dream. It's no wonder she takes forty minutes to get ready in the morning - her wardrobe is my ideal dress-up closet.</p><p>And. I. Am. Here. For. It.</p><p>My parents opted for a private education for me. It wasn't until college that I needed to choose my own outfits on any sort of regular basis. Some days, I'm still struggling to find my style, but my daughter has a confidence that means every style is her style. Soccer socks, flowered shorts, and a Yoda t-shirt? Yes. Fluffy dress with Puma sneakers? Yup. Rain boots, Hello Kitty rain jacket, patterned leggings, and a striped sweater? Absolutely.</p><p>If she relied entirely on the fashion choices of the awesome family members who buy her new clothing, she would not have nearly the amount of choices she does. I am grateful for the multiple older girls who share their clothing - from various styles of their own - and funnel them down to this one creative elementary school student. </p><p>Through her clothing, my daughter can showcase her vibrant personality. When she's feeling sparkly, she's got the shoes to express it. When she needs a pick-me-up, she can find her comfiest shirt and the leggings that match mine (you'll hear no complaints that she wants to match me), and her whole day is refreshed.</p><p>I love watching my daughter get to be herself. A preschool teacher once told me, "I love how you dress her!"</p><p>When I responded that she 100% dresses herself, the teacher responded, "Then I love how you let her be who she wants to be."</p><p>I carry those words with me, years later, as I watch my daughter pile a pink duster over a flower dress, over the leggings with the dice all over them. </p><p>It's not the patterns or the colors that make her outfits work (though those elements certainly help), it's her confidence. She loves how she looks, how she feels, and what she's wearing. And maybe it's that confidence I'm here for.</p><p>Fashion doesn't make my daughter confident. Confidence makes my daughter's fashion shine.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkGdcWP1M5bGXKhDwOAR_2rtz3VK4GlHseNoFTqZf-frmjz5CAFSlRPPt30thGNAFgU2rFKF0wzj2P2hHXoj2mngLPyk4MTLDI6lIEXb40HL2sQiy0PTwYflfMZvkEDVxItWX6DZv59ps/s1080/Fashion+doesn%2527t+make+my+daughter+confident.+Confidence+makes+my+daughter%2527s+fashion+shine.+www.roaringmamalion.com.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkGdcWP1M5bGXKhDwOAR_2rtz3VK4GlHseNoFTqZf-frmjz5CAFSlRPPt30thGNAFgU2rFKF0wzj2P2hHXoj2mngLPyk4MTLDI6lIEXb40HL2sQiy0PTwYflfMZvkEDVxItWX6DZv59ps/s320/Fashion+doesn%2527t+make+my+daughter+confident.+Confidence+makes+my+daughter%2527s+fashion+shine.+www.roaringmamalion.com.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-26055056590206815622021-10-18T13:22:00.002-07:002021-10-28T14:47:16.568-07:00Put On The Rice<p> I come home with my three kids. Two of them drop their backpacks in the entry way, and the third runs off to be reunited with his toys. I unpack my work bag and head to the kitchen.</p><p>As I add water to the pot and the rice to the water, I feel myself transported back to my own childhood, when my mom did the same thing. </p><p>Growing up, we had rice every day. We mastered the art of rinsing the grains before we added them to the rice cooker my parents received for their wedding. Putting on the rice was an integral part of our day.</p><p>In my own home, we mix up our starches more - sometimes it's pasta, at other times a tortilla, but there is something so comforting about putting on the rice.</p><p>The last few weeks have been complicated, to say the least, and the upcoming months promise their own share of challenges. As I started the rice that early evening, I stepped out of myself for a moment. I saw my hands going through the motions. I walked out of the kitchen thinking, "Well, I put on the rice."</p><p>It feels like a story.</p><p><i>When she came home, she immediately put on the rice.</i></p><p>It feels like a memory.</p><p><i>When my mom came home, she put on the rice.</i></p><p>We don't make the rice, we put it on. And once the rice is on, the best, most routine part of our weekdays begins. The quiet bustle of putting away the day, setting up for the new one. In the fall, there are cleats, shin guards, and soccer balls involved. There are snacks to pack, water bottles to fill. My daughter sits at the counter to do her homework. My toddler snacks on fruit and chatters in the language only we understand.</p><p>In the midst of having to be very aware of my own mental health, the comfort of putting on the rice is valuable. The routine connects me to my mom and hers before her, for rice has always been a part of our family meals. I'm not alone, struggling to maintain balance, keep a schedule, be a mom, be a teacher, be a wife, when I make the rice. I'm part of something bigger than myself, and I need that.</p><p>Putting on the rice isn't only about feeding my family, it's also about transitioning from the outside world to the insular one of our home and family. When the water hits the pot, we separate from work and school; we become each other's once again.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObm5W9cFOiS3KPFdk1EDVHgBst31oW7Q_DeNB0pcVKIY8uYxhWFr8sVW3k0Ll7qS2903slXdwV-zk0wDpBYM7RnmzrEFnnbyZ8hRVnQ9Od0yz9ioXYM8ajS3d2SMRW78DPwM_qFZdgss/s1080/When+the+water+hits+the+pot%252C+we+separate+from+work+and+school%253B+we+become+each+other%2527s+once+again.+%25281%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObm5W9cFOiS3KPFdk1EDVHgBst31oW7Q_DeNB0pcVKIY8uYxhWFr8sVW3k0Ll7qS2903slXdwV-zk0wDpBYM7RnmzrEFnnbyZ8hRVnQ9Od0yz9ioXYM8ajS3d2SMRW78DPwM_qFZdgss/s320/When+the+water+hits+the+pot%252C+we+separate+from+work+and+school%253B+we+become+each+other%2527s+once+again.+%25281%2529.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-50297878851866816472021-09-29T13:22:00.001-07:002021-09-29T13:22:10.131-07:00I Love Being a Sports Mom<p> As a kid, I knew other kids who played sports, but it wasn't part of my life. I'm sure my parents had reasons, whether because I was so shy I hid behind my mom's legs, because we couldn't afford it, because my parents working hours were so funky that they couldn't figure out how to get me to and from activities, or because they simply <i>had no idea how to register</i>, I didn't participate in sports until high school.</p><p>In my community, sports start young, and I felt it. Additionally, my then toddler was FULL of energy, and I wanted some positive ways for him to spend it.</p><p>Once my oldest turned three, I signed up for whatever sounded interesting to him. Before kindergarten, he had tried track, swimming, and BMX. Track, not surprisingly, was a hot mess for my anxious preschooler. He did learn to swim - possibly too well for a kid his age - and he took to BMX like he had to swimming. We completed three sessions, including a summer camp of BMX. My four-year-old pushed his body at practices, and we helped him learn that he couldn't always come in first.</p><p>I loved watching him compete. I felt such pride watching him work through the sensory challenge of the sounds of the starting bell ringing and the track gate falling. And I also really enjoyed watching how this little son of mine had such control over his body. Even when he was four, I was in awe of my son's athleticism. </p><p>He has explored other sports. He enjoyed wrestling for fun but not for sport, hated baseball, found a home on the soccer field, and developed skills in lacrosse. </p><p>This last summer, he had to try out for a sport for the first time. He asked me to sign him up for higher level swim lessons so that he could learn back stroke and improve his freestyle, both of the strokes he would need for his swim team try out.</p><p>And he did it - he improved enough to make the team. </p><p>While my son explored sports and gained skills, my daughter watched it all. Now, she has learned to swim, she is in her third year of soccer, and she's eager to start lacrosse in the fall. I cheer on her sidelines, just as happily as on her brother's. Her growth from a four-year-old who ran across a soccer field with her arms inside her jersey to a six-year-old with complicated foot work who eagerly passes to her teammates is extraordinary. </p><p>Now that they are both seasoned athletes in their own right, I get the bonus of watching my oldest help out at his sister's soccer practices. He asks Coach what she needs and jumps right in, assisting with drills, moving goals, encouraging the team, and getting out of the way when the girls "get" something new.</p><p>And I love it all.</p><p>I love the busy afternoons of practice. I love my turn as "snack parent" once per season. I pace the sidelines, never sitting while my kids play official games. </p><p>In my role as a sports mom, I get to see my kids in a whole new light. They are leaders on the field, calling passes to their teammates, running to a coach for half-time wisdom. In sports, they are more than test scores or grade level equivalencies. They are allowed to move. </p><p>I never participate in athletics as a kid, but I'm sure glad I get to participate in kids' athletics as a mom.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjccbUF9Hv69wrQ_H93WOTZGWcKi9nzx8oVJPJ0ha3NaLXPDS-B1U36SNe38SFw2FNgJlidaVyLAWNNQZ1XN4PRjABaLzSxjp43tLpqat1kstKAB-kttR1lSUt7kNziqSe_TcDxz6K2B8k/s1080/I+love+the+busy+afternoons+of+practice.+I+love+being+a+sports+mom.+www.roaringmamalion.com.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjccbUF9Hv69wrQ_H93WOTZGWcKi9nzx8oVJPJ0ha3NaLXPDS-B1U36SNe38SFw2FNgJlidaVyLAWNNQZ1XN4PRjABaLzSxjp43tLpqat1kstKAB-kttR1lSUt7kNziqSe_TcDxz6K2B8k/s320/I+love+the+busy+afternoons+of+practice.+I+love+being+a+sports+mom.+www.roaringmamalion.com.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-60066767184354242282021-09-07T09:04:00.001-07:002021-09-07T09:04:36.755-07:00RePost: I'm Starting to See the Teenager In Him<p> As a writer (albeit and inconsistent one), I'm always thrilled when I find an "official" outlet for my writing. Recently, Her View From Home published my piece about my oldest kiddo: <a href="https://herviewfromhome.com/im-starting-to-see-the-teenager-in-him/">I'm Starting to See the Teenager in Him</a>.</p><p>It went live on the first day of school, and I'm just now starting to come up for air after the whirlwind of the start of school. </p><p>So, here it is, the post that made my heart ache to write and makes strange water appear in my eyes when I read it. I hope you enjoy it!</p>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-89689082599013810632021-08-12T14:17:00.004-07:002021-08-12T14:17:51.266-07:00Children Deserve Our Apologies<p>I'm exhausted a lot of the time.</p><p>This exhaustion, combined with a full-time job, three kids (the toddler is 21 months old, and the idea that I have THREE humans to raise is still shocking), means that I'm not always at my best self.</p><p>I'm also an only child existing in the wild, chaotic family I only dreamed of as a child, and sometimes, the noise is...too much.</p><p>I break.</p><p>I snap.</p><p>And my children bear the consequences of my humanity.</p><p>Yes, I can work on my triggers and my reactions, but I frequently need to apologize to my kiddos, and while they deserve a parent who can maturely handle her emotions, they also deserve an apology when I am overwhelmed.</p><p>The sheer quantity of <i>input</i> from my kiddos can be challenging; this is especially true during stressful times. In mid-August, I'm feeling the incoming weight of a return to school (for all of us), a change in my husband's work schedule (it happens every year, but it's still a challenge), and the added weight of doing all of these things in an ongoing pandemic. When my daughter simply couldn't stop talking during a time when I desperately needed quiet, I yelled at her.</p><p>I immediately regretted this - I could have handled it differently - and so, I apologized. </p><p>"I am sorry for responding that way. You did not deserve that, and I should do better. I was feeling overwhelmed, and I reacted poorly."</p><p>We talked through what had happened, and I apologized again to wrap up the conversation. </p><p>She deserves an acknowledgment of my poor behavior - all of my children do.</p><p>My anger, my frustration, and my anxieties are not their burden to bear or work around. </p><p>I will continue to try to grow as a mature human who can respond better, but I know I'll stumble and fail. I'll never be that person who "never gets angry," but I can do better. In the mean time, I will hold myself accountable and tell my children that I've stumbled. </p>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-61142762525644322062021-06-03T16:01:00.002-07:002021-06-03T16:01:35.247-07:00Coming Out of My Hidey Hole<p> Oh...heeeeyyyyyyy.</p><p>Two and a half years ago, I wrote my last blog post. I didn't know it would be so long before I set...uhm...finger to keyboard again. </p><p>The truth is, I was burnt out on pouring my soul into a computer. Also, I started a Master's Program, while full-time teaching and parenting. Then we had our surprise third baby and moved across town with all three kids in tow (more on that later), and then there was a pandemic...sooo.</p><p>I recently read two books, <a href="https://www.napabookmine.com/book/9781984806734">Beach Read</a> and <a href="https://www.napabookmine.com/book/9780593318485">What I Mean</a>. <i>Beach Read</i> made me ready to jump into fiction writing again (working on a few things), and Joan Didion's essays in <i>What I Mean</i> made me ready to write about my own life again. So, here we are.</p><p>In the last two and a half years, I've grown up (at least I think I have). I've changed as a teacher, a mother, a wife, and a friend. I've got lots to say on parenting three wild children (including the toddler who now officially bites, throws things, slaps faces, and kicks while nursing, sometimes all simultaneously and always while laughing). During my unexpected hiatus, I've done a lot of personal healing and am still (always, never stopping) working on how to be a better human. </p><p>I'm back, and I'm ready to share some of my wild and crazy adventures with these cubs of mine.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhohmX6EcFXLW_rzFtsTtw0YfFuGKJD84weoi58BE45pTMmYHw2YnSXZlQeNp3M7xqL9fXPBUB4-WzqUwufXishjXsgdXINsnFj8G92iqGhAyDdvRym2aZoMB6eIy-3dr0h-UpLkBUDwsY/s1080/Untitled+design.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhohmX6EcFXLW_rzFtsTtw0YfFuGKJD84weoi58BE45pTMmYHw2YnSXZlQeNp3M7xqL9fXPBUB4-WzqUwufXishjXsgdXINsnFj8G92iqGhAyDdvRym2aZoMB6eIy-3dr0h-UpLkBUDwsY/s320/Untitled+design.png" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-28701204575628976962018-10-01T10:30:00.003-07:002018-10-01T10:30:53.023-07:00Why We Don't Speak Up*I am not a victim of sexual assault, but I have experienced bullying and sexual harassment in my life - as a child, teen, and as an adult*<div>
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<b>I'm triggered.</b></div>
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<i>Why didn't she say something sooner?</i></div>
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That's the big question, right? Why don't victims speak out RIGHT WHEN IT HAPPENS. Right when they are at their most raw? </div>
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I mean, my six and three-year-old children tell me about an offense practically while it's still happening. </div>
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Why can't we speak up right after we are hurt? Right when the evidence is the most fresh and the witnesses have the clearest memories?</div>
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<b>Because we want it to go away. In the moments when we are at our weakest, we aren't worried about consequences for the harasser. We want it to stop.</b></div>
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In the case of ongoing harassment and bullying, we hope that, one day, we will show up at work or school, and it <i>won't happen anymore</i>. </div>
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As a Junior in high school, my biggest harasser was a Senior. I knew he would leave the school before I did. There was a timeline on his verbal assaults. </div>
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<i>I could make it through. </i></div>
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I'd made it through before when my mom's best friend's son (yep, swallow THAT) harassed and bullied me every day, in a school with fewer than a dozen people. I could certainly make it through <i>this</i>.</div>
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As an adult, with a master's degree and a "real job," I repeatedly said no to sexual advances from a library customer. He would get the point eventually, right? He had to. </div>
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<b>And what if we do say something? What happens then?</b></div>
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First, the questions. Are we sure that it happened? Did that other teacher <i>really</i> pinch my side? Did he also <i>really</i> inappropriately touch several other female teachers on campus? Or did we misinterpret?</div>
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I waited over a year before saying something about that fellow teacher, and then it was "too late" for administration to file a formal complaint. Because it took me time to process what happened, took me time to share my story with my peers (who encouraged me to speak up), it was too late for the information to mean anything. There's an inherent injustice in all of this. </div>
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If I smiled more. If I giggled when saying no to a come-on. Maybe then, said numerous supervisors. Maybe then, it wouldn't escalate. </div>
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<b>What's the point in saying something if it's going to get turned around on us?</b> </div>
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We aren't flirty <i>enough.</i> We should ignore the rude comments about our looks, although, to be fair, if we got a haircut more frequently or really did fix that problem skin or wear more fashionable clothes, maybe we wouldn't get attacked quite so frequently. We should giggle and look away, let it all roll off our backs.</div>
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No matter what we wear or how we look, whether it's too sexy or not sexy enough, it's <i>our fault</i> that a man chose to dehumanize us, chose to stomp his feet and <i>tell our supervisors </i>that we were rude and said no. </div>
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So, why don't we say something earlier? Why don't we shout from the rooftops?</div>
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<b>Because we have been taught that it doesn't matter.</b></div>
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<b>Now, what are you going to do about that?</b></div>
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Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-38823089035433611152018-05-13T18:26:00.001-07:002018-05-13T18:26:43.160-07:00Book Review: First Impressions as Last Impressions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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*This is a book review based on a review copy I received from <a href="http://bakerpublishinggroup.com/bethanyhouse/bookreviewers" target="_blank">Bethany House Publishers Book Reviewer Program</a>*<br />
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Like any English Major worth their salt...or maybe like any stereotypical English Major, I love Jane Austen and all of the Austen Land spin-offs. I'm also a Bronte fan and have read more Jane Eyre retells than I care to count. So, when Bethany House listed <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07879BGW4/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_taft_p1_i0" target="_blank">First Impressions: A Contemporary Retelling of Pride & Prejudice</a> in their options for review, I immediately opted in.<br />
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<i>I wish I hadn't.</i><br />
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I can read pretty much anything, and I'm a fast reader, but this...I just couldn't get past the first fifty pages.<br />
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Dave (Darcy) is a mysterious business man who doesn't want anyone to find out his real identity (I didn't stick around long enough to find out what that is). He lives with his lovely Aunt Maddy and designed his mega-mansion to her specifications after he had to save her from financial ruin when her husband died and left her penniless.<br />
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Eddi (Elizabeth) is a new(ish) transplant to the quaint town of London, Texas. She's a well-educated lawyer trying to prove herself in the macho town. Her sisters are either more beautiful than her or undercover alcoholics, but their parents have their hands full.<br />
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The story itself centers around Aunt Maddy's dramatic production of <i>Pride & Prejudice</i>, which, since a tornado destroys the town's theater in the first pages of the book, will be performed as a dinner theater. Of course, Dave and Eddi are cast as Darcy and Elizabeth.<br />
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Dave tells his friend, Calvin, who he <i>really doesn't want to find out about his true identity</i>, that Eddi "would need to be way more classy to keep my attention for long," and also complains she's too short. As expected, Eddi overhears this <i>and keeps wanting to get with Dave</i>.<br />
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Still, the two just can't explain the heat between them.<br />
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I mean, who wouldn't want a man who thinks you aren't classy, objects to your height, or lack thereof, and desperately doesn't want you to find out <i>his real job</i>. He also hides in his man-shed throughout the first play rehearsal and calls his own character "Darby." That's a Texas-catch if I ever read about one.<br />
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The original tale showed us the faults in some antiquated systems around marriage and love, but this version shows a self-made woman who just <i>can't help falling in love with a jerk</i>. Why???? Let's just not.<br />
<br />
Then, as I searched for the photo and link to post in this review, I discovered (what I could have easily discovered had I simply looked at the print details), that Bethany House originally released the book in 2004. Perhaps the publishers are trying the title out with a new audience, but it doesn't hold against the other titles waiting patiently on my nightstand. So, off to Trevor Noah's, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Born-Crime-Stories-African-Childhood/dp/0399588175/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1526260974&sr=8-1&keywords=trevor+noah+born+a+crime" target="_blank">Born a Crime</a><br />
<br />
But...if you hear of any other Austen remakes, I'm game to at least give them a try, because I'm that reader and that English major. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10399063549286134333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-26872646236075375832018-03-05T15:00:00.000-08:002018-03-05T15:00:01.293-08:00The Truth of It: Continued Reflections on The Hate U GiveI grew up in incredibly diverse neighborhoods. I have no close white friends from college. My parents grew up around the world, and my dad was an Ethnic Studies major in college <i>while I was growing up</i>.<br />
<br />
And still? I wondered what the black men who the police killed <i>must have done</i> before the police killed them. What were they guilty of? Surely, they had done something that triggered this kind of response. I looked for the evidence that these men were innocent; I sought it out.<br />
<br />
Just like the characters in Angie Thomas's novel, I believed the media's stories about drug and gang connections, about behaviors that are just "asking for" that kind of police attention.<br />
<br />
I am an educated, experienced, knowledgeable <i>teacher</i> who still got drawn in by the media's version of the truth.<br />
<br />
Despite diverse neighborhoods, diverse friends, and working with a diverse community, I am still guilty.<br />
<br />
I may not exhibit the overt racism of my grandparents, but I still had those thoughts, those assumptions.<br />
<br />
And the irony of it, is that even though my dad had a career in law enforcement, I have a lifelong...discomfort...around police officers. As a toddler, yes a <i>toddler</i>, I witnessed a police officer dragging a boy up the escalator in the mall <i>by his ear</i>. And so cemented a lifelong discomfort bordering on fear.<br />
<br />
I wouldn't look at my dad in his uniform when he came home - he had to change first before I would hug him.<br />
<br />
And <i>still</i>. I made assumptions.<br />
<br />
And I couldn't face that until I read this book.<br />
<br />
I don't know what's next. I did join the "<a href="http://www.showingupforracialjustice.org/">Showing Up for Racial Justice</a>" Facebook Community in my area. I'm reading. I'm gathering information. I've missed a lot in 30+ years of not paying enough attention; so, this will take time.<br />
<br />
I'm making a change. <br />
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Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-31455024255179467632018-02-27T21:18:00.001-08:002018-03-05T11:55:00.958-08:00The Hope You Have: Reflections After Reading The Hate U Give<b>For just a moment...</b><br />
<br />
Let's forget that I was raised by two married parents, who'd known each other since adolescence.<br />
<br />
Let's forget that my parents owned a home by the time I was four.<br />
<br />
Let's forget that both of my parents (eventually) went to college.<br />
<br />
Let's forget that I went to private school.<br />
<br />
Let's forget that both of my parents were always employed or in school.<br />
<br />
Let's forget that I had my own car four months after I turned 16.<br />
<br />
Let's forget that we always had food.<br />
<br />
Let's forget that I attended a public ivy.<br />
<br />
<b>We can, for the moment, remember only the following:</b><br />
<br />
We were not always financially secure and often bought clothes on layaway.<br />
<br />
My dad worked 70+ hour weeks at a stressful, dangerous job.<br />
<br />
The homes my parents owned were in neighborhoods where, with the exception of Halloween, we didn't go out at night.<br />
<br />
For much of my early childhood, family arguments and violence, largely in my mother's parents' home, were a real and frequent threat.<br />
<br />
My appearance, behavior, and the fact that I went to different elementary schools than my peers, meant that I often dealt with bullying, taunting, and cruelty.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>And yet...</b><br />
<br />
<i>I have white skin. </i><br />
<br />
I just finished reading <a href="http://angiethomas.com/books" target="_blank">The Hate U Give</a> by Angie Thomas, and I had to do some serious thinking about how I few my own struggles. It almost doesn't matter how many struggles I put on that list, because the color of my skin grants me a privilege I cannot ignore.<br />
<i> </i><br />
Like Starr Carter, the main character in the novel, I had a vastly different background than most of my peers at my private high school (which was far from the elite school Starr attends but was still <i>private</i>). But that's about where the similarities end, and I can't fit my story into hers.<br />
<br />
Even living in less-than-savory neighborhoods (yes, we knew the streets to avoid wandering down because of gang presence), I never actually feared for my life...but I know people who did. And, you guessed it, they didn't have white skin.<br />
<br />
I'm still wrestling with what to <i>do</i> after reading this book. There's something about the story, about Ms. Thomas's writing, that drives home something I haven't been able to grasp in the news stories.<br />
<br />
<b>Bear with me.</b><br />
<br />
My great uncles risked their lives for the French Resistance during World War II. My grandfather fought in three wars, <i>three</i>. My dad served in the military police and went on to try to reform thousands of criminals. My mom always fought for the underdog.<br />
<br />
<i>What do I do?</i><br />
<br />
I like to think that my power, my path to making a difference is in teaching. I hope that's true...but...this year? I've had some students who do not, shall we say, bring out the best in me.<br />
<br />
<i>I'm struggling</i>.<br />
<br />
I have this skin. I have these degrees. I have this knowledge about what's right and wrong.<br />
<br />
<i>What do I do</i>?<br />
<br />
<b>For now, I write this.</b><br />
<br />
And then, I find ways to right what's wrong, to forge a new world.<br />
<b> </b><br />
<b>I don't have answers, but I have hope...and I have a voice.</b><br />
<br />
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<br />Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10399063549286134333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-62894659448243791952018-02-07T11:28:00.001-08:002018-02-07T11:28:33.180-08:00Forty Days: Lenten RenewalI used to give up candy and then binge on bags of peanut M&Ms on Easter Sunday.<br />
<br />
Once, I gave up gum and ended up not chewing it again for two years.<br />
<br />
I've given up soda and dessert. As an adult, I've given up alcohol.<br />
<br />
I have made these physical "sacrifices," but I prefer to take action, to <i>do something</i> rather than give up something.<br />
<br />
Lent 2018 has snuck up on me - it begins next week, on Valentine's Day, in fact, and I needed to sit down and think about how I will honor this sacred time of year.<br />
<br />
In our church, we often talk about working inward and working outward. I like the feel of that, and so I have two focuses, one about <i>my mindset</i> and one about turning outward to my community. <br />
<br />
<b>Honoring My Husband</b><br />
<br />
Over the past half decade and change (since a certain tiny human made his appearance), I have not necessarily focused as much as I would like on my husband. We go on date nights. We try to have time together, but, especially in the last year, I realize that a part of me has almost ignored him. <br />
<br />
That's not fair.<br />
<br />
We've gotten caught up in the busy-ness of life. We talk about home repairs, about school choices, about weekend plans. I've slowed down to work on myself, and as the fog has cleared, I can see my husband there, patiently waiting.<br />
<br />
In January, I decided that I need to jump back into focusing on building my faith, and the first study I completed was <a href="https://www.bible.com/reading-plans/10920-praying-for-my-husband">Five Days of Praying for My Husband. </a><br />
<br />
Towards the end of the plan, I was prompted to make a list of the ten top reasons my husband blesses me.<br />
<br />
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<br />
After I wrapped the brief devotional, I browsed through the additional resources and found <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Thirty-One-Prayers-My-Husband-Seeing/dp/0986366730">Thirty-One Prayers for My Husband</a>. Once I realized that Lent starts <i>next week</i>, I decided that this book would focus me during this season. I enjoyed taking a structured time to focus on my husband, and I want to build on that.<br />
<br />
<b>Giving with Grace</b><br />
<br />
Over the span of just a few years, we needed <i>a lot </i>of help. We bought our house and started making it our own. We had two energetic kids, including one who still would prefer to <i>never sleep</i>. We began truly building our careers. I lost my mom.<br />
<br />
Our community gathered around us and <i>helped</i>.<br />
<br />
For the first time in a long while, I feel ready to start giving back with more than a quick donation. <br />
<br />
And so...forty days...forty acts of service.<br />
<br />
I am certainly open to suggestions, and I am aware of my own limits. I want to start small, but I want to start.<br />
<br />
For now, the ideas only involve me, but it would simple to bring my children, especially my kindergartner son, into this spirit of giving of ourselves.<br />
<br />
I've opened this up to my small book club, and I'll share on social media. I want to hold myself accountable, get ideas for opportunities to serve, and build community in the process.<br />
<br />
I'm ready to say THANK YOU to all those who have helped our family over the past several years and begin giving again. <br />
<br />
<i>With these two plans in place, I feel ready to observe this holy time. </i><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>How will you focus during this Lenten season? </b><br />
<br />
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<b> </b>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-18672770072450407842018-02-05T13:28:00.001-08:002018-02-05T13:28:28.586-08:00Fitness and Health: Preserving the JoyA year ago, I would not have bet money on pumping up a paddle board and setting out to meet a friend in the middle of the Napa River. But it <i>actually happened</i>. I pumped up my own board and had a wee adventure - one I hope to have again and again.<br />
<br />
On the way back from that adventure, I suddenly felt the full force of the joys in my life. I have a wonderful husband, two rambunctious kids, and I had just spent the afternoon on the river with a fantastic friend. I have a fulfilling job. I love my home. I could go on. <b>I could list <i>all</i> of my blessings, and I did, and I felt overwhelmed with joy.</b><br />
<br />
I felt like a little piece of time had opened up, and I could, just for a moment, whisper back to my 17 year-old-self, wrestling with all of the 17 year-old drama, and say, loud enough to be heard through time, <b>"It gets better. I <i>promise</i> you that it gets better." </b><br />
<br />
After that moment of time travel, I thought, "I have a lot to lose."<br />
<br />
I want to keep this life full of love and light - a life that takes effort and prayer and intention. A life that did not come easily.<br />
<br />
<b>Keeping my life means keeping up with my health. </b><br />
<br />
After my daughter's birth, I had my first genetic screening for Breast Cancer, which revealed a 35% lifetime risk of Breast Cancer. Last week, I got the results for a more targeted test<b> </b>through <a href="https://myriad.com/patients-families/patient-resources/mysupport360/">Myriad. </a><br />
<br />
Thankfully, my lifetime risk has gone down to just under 30% (thank you, breast feeding!), and my doctor offered me several precautionary tips. She put me on a new regimen of vitamins and prescribed 30 minutes of exercise daily. Adding more exercise into my life isn't a <i>huge</i> change, given that I fully believe that a healthy life makes for a happy wife, but I took this to truly mean that paddle boarding is now <i>prescribed</i> by my doctor.<br />
<br />
I want to do all that I can to stay healthy and fit for my children. <b>I'm rededicating myself to my own health and wellness - body, mind, spirit, and soul. </b><br />
<br />
It's been a journey - none of this happened over night, but changes include: <br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Keeping up with bi-annual intensive breast cancer screening. </li>
<li>Seeing a chiropractor to ensure that my body remains strong and limber so that I <i>can</i> exercise</li>
<li>Revising my skin care routine to be cleaner and simpler and setting a delivery of my makeup for every 6 months so that I'm not using old makeup on clean skin</li>
<li>Meal planning, meal prepping, and streamlining my grocery shopping routine</li>
<li>Cleaning up our family schedule to make it more nourishing and less stressful</li>
<li>Demonstrating fitness to my children with Yoga, walks, hikes, biking, and more </li>
<li>Paddle boarding</li>
<li>Reading, reading, reading - I always have a book on my night table and something new playing on Audible, and reading is a crucial part of my kids' bedtime routine</li>
<li>Scheduling a standing date with my mom tribe - no guilt, make it or not, but it'll be on the calendar, regardless</li>
<li>Starting an online Bible study/book club (no pressure - one chapter a month)</li>
<li>Seeing friends regularly for shared meals and adventures </li>
</ul>
This list may sound like another version of "do all the things," but each one, individually, nourishes and refreshes me. I am working to keep the blessings I so longed for as a teenager and young adult. <br />
<br />
I realize the weight of the blessings, and I value them beyond measure. <br />
<br />
I will do everything in my power to keep this life. And I'll probably color my hair...just for the joy of it.<br />
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Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-4878165117677301092018-01-29T15:03:00.001-08:002018-01-29T15:03:19.114-08:00On FOMO.Perhaps the roots were planted long ago, when "everyone" was invited to a party I had no clue about. <br />
<br />
Or maybe it's a deep-seeded fear that my own social ineptitude will impact my children's lives, that my awkwardness will limit their invitations to friends' birthday parties.<br />
<br />
Or, maybe, it's FOMO, defined, helpfully, by Google Dictionary as:<br />
<br />
<i><span>anxiety that an exciting or interesting event may currently be
happening elsewhere, often aroused by posts seen on a social media
website.</span></i><br />
<br />
<span><b>Yes</b>.</span><i><span> </span></i><br />
<i><span><br /></span></i>
<span>Whatever the causes, I can't control my immediate reaction to posts from long-ago friends (more accurately described now as, "Someone I follow on Instagram") wine-tasting in Napa every weekend and, like, <i>never</i>, reaching out.</span><br />
<span><br /></span><i><span></span></i>
<span>There are other examples, but that one stands out the most, largely because <i>I live in an incredibly popular tourist destination and people are allowed to visit it without stopping to pay a toll at my house. </i></span><br />
<br />
<span><a href="https://www.emilyley.com/">Emily Ley</a> presented a social media challenge that spoke to me, </span>"Unfollow anyone who makes you feel inadequate (even friends<span><i>)." </i></span><br />
<br />
<span>My emotional response to <i>people having fun with someone other than me</i> is not the responsibility of anyone else. People are allowed to have fun, to live their lives.</span><br />
<span><i> </i></span><i><span></span></i><br />
<span>My FOMO and I need to change something.</span><br />
<br />
<span>I've gone on a bit of an unfollowing spree since the summer, but I need to pare down more. If I'm incapable of feeling positive about someone's posts, I have to unfollow. </span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>This year, I want to model my life on two major points. </span><br />
<br />
<span>First, "Grace and gratitude." I want to give people grace and also feel gratitude for what I have. Second, I'm inspired by my husband's grandfather's humble prayer at mealtime, <i>"Dear Lord, we have all we need, and we are grateful for it."</i></span><br />
<br />
<span>I am incredibly grateful for the friends I do have, the invitations I do receive, and the life I lead. </span><br />
<br />
<span>I don't need to worry about what I'm <i>not</i> doing. Who has time for that mess?</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>Not every post on social media is meant for me. <b>Before social media, we moved in and out of each other's lives, without constant access to daily updates from people we no longer know, without being privy to information that really isn't ours </b>- which means I don't need to follow everyone I've ever known or met. I can let go. </span><br />
<br />
<b><span>I'm moving from "saying less yes" to outright saying "no." </span></b><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>For me, the first step is admitting my own FOMO. </span><br />
<br />
<span>The second step is curating my social media - I don't need to have a front row seat to all of these lives. It's not my business, and, if it activates my FOMO, it's not <i>healthy </i>for me.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>And what's unhealthy has to go, even if that means I'm left with approximately 12 people to follow...</span><br />
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<span><br /></span><i><span></span></i>Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-61703725610559226872018-01-22T21:21:00.000-08:002018-01-22T21:21:28.276-08:00Grief is a Funny ThingOne year ago today, my mama died.<br />
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Mama.</div>
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Mommy.</div>
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Mamacita.<br />
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Little Mama.</div>
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<i>Mother</i>.</div>
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My grandma always told me I'd outgrow the first two, that "Mom" was inevitable. Thankfully, she was wrong (as she was wrong about a great many things). I have not, and likely never will, outgrow needing Mommy.</div>
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A year ago, I lost my mama. My soft spot. The best hugs in the universe. </div>
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Grief is a funny little thing. Sometimes it is overwhelming. Sometimes it is invisible. And sometimes I'm walking on another planet. </div>
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Sometimes grief means that I yell and cry at my husband because I can't just say out loud, "Please be extra gentle with me right this minute, before you even say your first words to me today." So, grief lurks and leaps when he says <i>just the wrong thing</i>, through no fault of his own.</div>
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<b>This past year has shown me a lot about myself. And I have oh so much more to learn.</b></div>
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I've learned to nourish myself more. I've learned to text my dad after his nine paragraph posts on social media...just to make sure he's okay. After all, we are grieving together, in our own ways, and we can't let each other go.</div>
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I've learned that, even though a big part of me wants something bigger in my life, that even though my suburban life sometimes seems <i>so tiny</i>, this life is exactly what I always wanted. And my kids <i>do not care one iota</i> how many followers I have in Instagram...especially if those followers interfere with playing Magnatiles or reading a story at night. And, as it should be, I care <i>way more</i> about my kids than I do about my "brand." Good to know.</div>
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I have lots of questions that will go unanswered. I'm raising kids without my mama. This hits hard, for a lot of reasons. What should I do when my son has trouble at school? What do I do when my daughter becomes a teenager? I keep praying that her wisdom will trickle down and magically show up in my brain when I'm talking to one of my weeping children. </div>
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It still remains true that the most important thing she ever did for me was <i><a href="https://winecountry.citymomsblog.com/mom/listened-lesson-mama/">listen</a>, </i>and I'm trying, each and every day to do that.</div>
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My daughter, after finally finding her voice at 2.5 years old, insists that we all listen,"No, you don't talk now. I TALK NOW." </div>
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My son interrupts himself every 13 seconds to ensure I'm still listening, "So, the anvelopes were roaming in the fields, Mommy...Mommy...Mommy...and the anvelopes had their new baby anvelopes...Mommy....Mommy."</div>
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<b>They keep me accountable</b>.</div>
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Grief is a funny thing that makes me weak and vulnerable but also keeps motivating me. </div>
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I'm going to keep listening, to keep spending time with those who matter most, to take time off work.</div>
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I'm going to drink more sparkling wine. I'm going to laugh at ridiculous things. I'm going to quote my mother (often inside my own head) multiple times per day. </div>
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I'm going to fight for what's right. I'm going to get angry when I need to. </div>
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I'm going to do all those things she did. But I'm also going to do what she didn't. I'm going to take care of my body - I'm going to believe that I <i>deserve</i> to be nurtured, nourished, and loved. </div>
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She <i>never </i>believed she was worthy of love, and I'm taking that thought and crushing it under my Nikes. My body deserves attention. My heart, mind, and soul do, too.</div>
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<b>Grief is a funny thing. We remember the best. We remember the worst. And we act on those memories.</b></div>
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So, here we go. Into a brand new year.</div>
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Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4813352342088131791.post-37865353644827637772018-01-01T13:01:00.000-08:002018-01-01T13:01:30.274-08:00Resolutions Without GoalsI ended 2016 facing a full-scale burn-out. In the weeks leading up to the holidays, my work held "wellness workshops" and we were "cautioned to look for the signs of burn-out. I could check a box next to every single symptom.<br />
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I struggled with how to keep <a href="http://www.roaringmamalion.com/2017/01/i-need-to-put-my-life-back-into-neat.html">my life in balance </a>while maintaining all of the things.<br />
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And you know what? It didn't work.<br />
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<b>Sure, for a while there, I really could do it all. </b><br />
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I could feel like a halfway decent parent, wife, friend, teacher, and maintain my other interests (hobbies that turned into businesses). Upon closer inspection, though, I really...wasn't. Something <i>always</i> lost.<br />
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I spent much of 2017 trying to restructure my priorities, and it became abundantly clear that hobbies needed to remain just that - my life could not support deadlines (self-imposed or required by other organizations) or engagement requirements. <br />
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In March, I vowed to <a href="http://www.roaringmamalion.com/2017/03/say-yes-less.html">say yes less</a>, to stop <i>adding</i> to my list of "priorities" (because when the list is so long, is anything <i>really</i> a priority?). In April, I <a href="http://www.roaringmamalion.com/2017/04/reflections-less-yes.html">checked in with myself</a> and realized I liked how it felt to stop doing all of the things. In August, after a summer focused on entirely new things, I started to <a href="http://www.roaringmamalion.com/2017/08/putting-fragments-together-no-more.html">re-align my priorities</a>. In September, I officially parted ways with my <a href="http://www.roaringmamalion.com/2017/09/setting-priorities-why-i-stopped-direct.html">direct sales businesses</a>. It's been a long year of reflection, of self-evaluation, of realizing that these goals I had for myself were only getting in the way of any real progress.<br />
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So, I am not starting 2018 with any big, tangible goals. I am happy with where I am career-wise (at least for the moment). As much as I once wanted recognition as a writer, photographer...blogger, I have to let all of that go. It may feel like giving up - and in some ways, it <i>is</i> - but I'm also opening myself up to something bigger - the opportunity for God to move within my life. I'm giving up some of my intense control...which terrifies me.<br />
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What kinds of resolutions does someone with no specific goals set, then?<br />
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<b>Face the day with grace and gratitude</b> - I have slowly worked my way through Emily Ley's <a href="https://www.emilyley.com/products/grace-not-perfection-book">Grace Not Perfection</a> (I still have a ways to go), and this new mantra stands out to me. I have a personal struggle granting others grace. I'm constantly at work on myself, and I grow easily frustrated with others who aren't in a place of growth. It's a weakness, a failing, and I don't like that quality in myself. I'm vowing to change it. <br />
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My husband's grandfather gave a dinner blessing our first night in Oklahoma for the holidays. This classic cowboy said, <b>"Dear Lord, we have all that we need, and we are thankful for it." </b>And I kept repeating that to myself for the rest of the trip. I don't lack for anything, and I am immensely grateful for what I have. And I need to remind myself of that daily.<br />
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<b>Focus on health </b>- I let a lot of things get in the way of my fitness and health. If I can't find the right fitness group, I give up. If I can't afford cross-fit. If I feel bad about leaving my kids in the daycare center (even though they always have a blast). If I get frustrated with my daughter's hatred of the stroller. If I complete a challenge and then don't do anything for weeks. My fitness is the first thing to go to make room for something new, and that has to change.<br />
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<b>Spend time with those who matter most</b> - Whether by text, phone, or actually in person, I will focus more on the people I want to have in my life. I get caught in the trap of social media feeling like an authentic connection, and in reality, it's not (at least not for me - y'all do what works best for you!). <br />
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That's it. And it's a lot. <br />
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But I'm relieved to not have numbers to track (three workouts a week! sell, sell, sell!) or followers to count. <br />
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This is the year I finally <i>don't </i>do all of the things.<br />
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Happy 2018.<br />
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<br />Mrs. Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04184287733802407735noreply@blogger.com0