The English teacher of my junior year could have, at varying points in the year, landed squarely in both “Wisest Writing Mentor” and “She Needs a Pat on the Back…Off a Cliff” categories.
She scrawled Blah over my paper titles. Castigated my writing publicly. Scoffed at my conclusions.
The first time I met her, I entered my friend Kristen’s shop jittery as a triple espresso. She’s a multi-published author who didn’t know me from scrambled eggs. A mutual friend simply knew my resume, knew I was beginning a blog.
I was on “home” assignment from our post in Uganda (“home” while living overseas = weirdness. Every dang time). Perhaps I was most embarrassed that stress sweat tumbled off me in waves; I remember thinking I smelled like a packed African minibus. (Despite my insistence, my mom says I can either have 1) natural deodorant or 2) friends.)
So like it or not, we’re all homeschooling now, right?
I personally was World’s Most Reluctant Homeschooler…until surprisingly, I ended up loving it. I even learned some things about my own strengths and passions I wouldn’t have known. (My kids eventually transferred with relative smoothness to public school.)
That very well may not be you. You might just be looking for ideas so your child, the walls, and the permanent markers stay socially distanced.
For a year in Uganda, I taught a class at a local institution for early childhood education teachers. I’d haul in boxes of file folder games and bottle caps and flour for us to make playdough together. I’d bring along one of my kids to show them how the games worked, and we’d split up into “centers” for them to try out games involving clothespins and string and painting with water on cement. I wanted them to feel and smell and hear and taste how fun it could be to teach kids early math skills; to know how to read. In a country where it was still acceptable to cane children in the classroom, I wanted to show them that by getting kids excited about learning–rather than shamed–teachers cut their work in half. Why?
In teaching that class, I uncovered a core philosophy of mine. If kids can “catch the bug” for a subject when they’re young—having fun and being engaged—they’ll be self-driven to learn and experience that topic for the rest of their lives.
(That’s the philosophy that informs the whole Spiritual Disciplines for Real Families series on this site.)
So my kids are home for the summer after their first year in public school. Observations:
a. I’ve been looking forward to quality time with them. That said, if they fight like, one more time? I may be glancing at tickets for four children to, say, Abu Dhabi.
b. I am still working from home. So in contrast to what I wish summer looked like for moms, it’s more to the tune of “more bricks, less straw”.
The power of shame continues to make my mind fizz. (Yours might, too: This post on shame in parenting has drawn more readers than any other post on this site, bar none.)
But now all those thoughts are bubbling over what shame might look like in a marriage; in our most intimate concentric circle of community. See, I know shame—this idea that I’m not worthy of connecting with someone—immediately leads me to cover up.
Take the typical fight with a spouse. First reaction is not typically, You’re so right. I’m snippy, and I have a profound case of PMS. It’s more along the lines of blame-shifting (Well, if you’d stop overreacting like some kind of hypersensitive Pomeranian). Denying (I didn’t say you were arrogant! I said you were cocky). Hiding (If I don’t say anything, it will look a lot like peace and taking the higher road).
In all honesty, with my house still lined with cardboard moving boxes, camping was not at the top of my priority. When my dad burst into a rendition of a song entitled (I kid you not) “We’re Going Camping Now!”, I admit to replying with a chipper, “Whether we like it or not!” I could barely find underwear for everyone. I’d been in some form of transitional housing for the last year. Let’s go sleep in a tent without a shower!
But as we wove through the mountains, I had to admit that maybe it was good this was blacked out on the calendar. How long had it been since I’d been able to tell everyday life “Stop. For right now, just stop”?
My sheepishness reached its hilt the next day when my kids’ skin was glittering and shivering as they picked their way through the river, counting rainbow trout and daring each other to duck beneath the current. Their courage and confidence mounted before my eyes. The spikes of pine behind them were stunning; the rock formations solid and timeless.
I guess you could say that because of my story, which I shared last week–I’m pretty passionate about giving insecurity the boot. Maybe it’s much more so in parenting because I watch how my kids Xerox my values.
And I know how much it’s robbed from me.
I told you how insecurity—for far too long—was a giant, life-sucking Hoover in my marriage. It was as if I’d wrapped a leash around my neck, panting to be led by someone’s opinions. …Even complete strangers.
He’s loved me through a lot, you know.
When we married 16 years ago—I at 19, he at 20—I was cripplingly insecure. It was as if I’d wrapped a leash around my neck, panting to be led by someone’s opinions.
![Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language](https://www.janelbreitenstein.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/love-languages-text-1.jpg "Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language")
© 2024 THE AWKWARD MOM
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
