Just hanging out by the campfire this past week, my 17 year old daughter asked what she could do to not be stressed like I was when I was a young mom. I think the question stemmed from some old pictures I’d found from her toddler days that I’d shown her earlier in the week. Maybe still haunting her. (Who are we kidding? They still haunt me. And I’d be super embarrassed if any of our friends found them, so I tucked them back in their vintage suitcase and put the little basket back on top for safekeeping.)
As I started to answer her, I tripped over my words and couldn’t succinctly gather my thoughts. How to sum up how not to be stressed out mom? And yet I knew instinctively she wasn’t asking for a collage of mothering advice, just a simple how to avoid the inevitable craziness of life with young kids.
Going back… after four years of vet school in Illinois, my husband and I moved to Montana with our 2 and 4 year old boys and immediately became pregnant with our daughter. Five kids in eight years. Dogs. A fixer-upper 1700 square foot house from the 70s. A garden and raspberry patch. A third acre lot needing constant weeding and mowing. Projects inside and out always at some stage of progress. A husband who was on-call, gone 8-6:30 and worked a lot of Saturdays, helped out in the bishopric, and who hunted and fished often. No relatives within 600 miles. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a regular everyday family in my mind. But it was messy. And to be honest, nothing’s really changed all that much. Except the kids have grown up and can help a little more. We’re working on yet another fixer-upper, we still have more projects than daylight along with lots of animals, and life is still pretty ordinary as I see it.
So as I reminisced with Todd later on our drive down the mountain, I asked what we could’ve changed, what could’ve helped relieve some of our/my stress in our younger days. Without much fanfare or commentary, he reminded me of my old self and offered the sage advice, Don’t compare yourself to other moms. So wise, probably the best advice I can think of as I look back on my younger mom days. Maybe it was because I didn’t have a stay-at-home model to refer to, so I looked laterally to other moms around me. I had good intentions, I took my role seriously and I wanted to do a good job.
In my young mind I thought being that kind of mom meant things like making Easter cookies using scripture verses, the kind that turn hollow (empty) after sitting in a warm oven (tomb) overnight and making paper bunny boxes just a couple of weeks after our April baby was born and I was getting ready for a trip to see my mom with the three kids. So dumb. I did the elf like an idiot. We signed up for sports and I trailed everyone everywhere. I forced instruments. I remember doing bean jars, rewarding good behavior with a bean every now and then. When our daughter was super young I’d insist on choosing her clothes and doing her hair. Good grief.
We eventually bowed out of some activities of course. And I quit thinking Family Home Evening had to follow a certain format. We relaxed about how to share our values with our kids and encouraged them to think for themselves. I let the kids choose any clothes they wanted and I don’t know if I’ve ever braided my girls’ hair. I quit micromanaging their music practice, and I’ve never been on parent portals or websites to check grades. All that alleviated a lot of potential stress, and it all felt very right for us to live like that.
I don’t remember when it started to click though, maybe it was a book? But it wasn’t long before I started to recognize that by raising our family in a way that felt natural and instinctive to us, we would feel more settled and at ease than if we were constantly fighting against our personalities and energy levels and circumstances. That truth resonated with me and I started to embrace my own style regardless of what it looked like to others. Stress, I’ve realized, stems from conflict, from trying to be something we’re not. So often it's self-induced. Peace, on the other hand, comes when we’re true to who we are. So I had to learn to choose between what I assumed were expectations and what I came to trust as my own instincts. So while the messes and general chaos lingered, I began to feel settled as I embraced my natural inclinations as a mom.
Todd and I talked about what the days looked like years ago. We had a lot of people over. Families for dinner, kids to play. We intentionally made some of our messes, and some were just the result of letting them learn and explore. I’d put blue food coloring in the bath water so it would look like the ocean. I let them finger paint with pudding and shaving cream. I let them make as much of their own food as possible. And I certainly let them feed themselves from about the minute they could. I insisted on sugar cookies for every appropriate holiday. I let them experiment in the kitchen and sit on the counter while I made bread, making them flour and water piles. I encouraged them to create with mud and raw rice and to take toys and clothes outside to play Marketplace. I taught them how to build forts and thought it’d be fun to make a zoo using all the trains and animals we had. And water. I purposefully bought toys with lots of pieces and fodder for imagining.
We went places together. I was never the kind of mom to save errands for when dad got home. The last thing I wanted to do with my alone time was shop for groceries. So I took them with me everywhere I went. Costco, Walmart, the library, garage sales. In the summer we almost always packed our lunches and snacks and blankets and headed to the park by about 10. We went to the splash park, the wading pool, the zoo, story times. I wanted the kids to experience real life by coming shopping with me and on errands, and I wanted them to be outside and to see the world.
And yet I cried myself to sleep many nights from exhaustion. And from feeling so bad about yelling at them, for getting frustrated, for not being the calm and sweet and tidy mom that I so badly wanted to be. I cried because I felt all alone with no family around and with Todd gone so much. I felt resentful that we had dogs and an ugly old house and so much work. I specifically remember crying to my mom when we stayed with her just three weeks after my daughter was born. I felt so ashamed for having a third child. I was so embarrassed by how inept I was, how prideful I’d been to think I could handle another on top of two busy boys. I have no idea if other moms cry about being a mom; maybe I’m just an idiot. When I was still so new, I assumed everyone else had it figured out and had somehow found a way to do it all. And be clean about it. It sure looked like it from my vantage point. And I was flailing and failing.
But, looking back, I don’t label it as stress. I’d categorize it all more as just the natural by-product of wanting them to live fully. Not only was there so much laundry, there were dog accidents and endless streams of dishes and papers and accidents and creative projects. We’ve always cooked from scratch, and so there were always pots and bowls and utensils and foods out. Hardly a time when all the dishes fit neatly into the dishwasher without remainders. We’ve always let the kids do as much on their own as possible, which contributes immensely to the work of a mom, rarely making life easier. The days were full for sure. Excursions, outside play, museums, pets, historical sites, nature trails, camping, cooking, reading, play dough, sugar cookies, art projects, dress up. As enriching and tame as that all sounds, it simply requires work. To load up the van, to buckle everyone, to remember the food and an extra pair of underwear and shorts or two, sippy cups, to keep track of everyone, to remember sunscreen and bee sting medicine. To unload it all, to bathe everyone, to wash blankets embedded with dry grass, to carry home the bags and bags of library books, to keep them all straight, to clean up the glitter, to pick up the shredded diapers and wipes all over the yard. Stress? I don’t know. Nothing was too heady or too serious, just a bit of everyday work.
As Todd and I remembered our earlier days coming down the mountain road, I told him that I probably wouldn’t change much about how we did things. I’d know, of course, to ditch the expectations I had for myself and to put on my blinders to how other moms were doing it all. But I’d tackle the work again in a heartbeat. It’s not that different in some ways even now, and I suppose some people would feel stress about our life if they had to live it. We’ve continued to encourage the kids to make messes as they create. We don’t mind metal shavings and scraps of leather and fabric and bits of thread. Yes, cook—make anything you want. Yes, bring your friends. Yes, take blankets outside and to the drive in. Yes, hang your hammock. Yes, bring your dogs. Yes, make a face mask out of stuff in the kitchen. Yes, spread your project out on the counter. Yes, let’s cut and glue and write and build and make popcorn and smoothies and experiment. Come here, let me show you how the sewing machine works. Help me with dinner. Yes, it was a mess. And it still is. Yes, it was a lot of work. And maybe it still is from an outsider’s perspective. Yes, I still cry occasionally about my inadequacies as a mom. Yes, I’m embarrassed by how unkempt our house continues to be and how many unfinished projects are constantly in progress. But yes, it feels natural and real. And like us. Yes, I’m sure. I’d do it all mostly all the same all over again.
My philosophy was to let kids be young and to not squelch their curiosity and creativity. I don’t believe in staying up late cleaning and feeling resentful; we wanted to teach them to help and accept what they could do. I felt to enjoy the days at the park and the pool; the day will come all too soon when they won’t even want you there. Sit on the porch with your cute husband and ignore your sink of dishes inside for an hour. Or the night. Read piles and piles of books with your kids. Pay the late fees and the replacement fees. Let them dress up and use markers and knives and have pets. And while I have absolutely no regrets over dumped-out Lego buckets and grass stains and lost books and lax bedtimes, it’s certainly not the life every mom wants, I get that. But even though it was messy and looked stressful, looking back, I wouldn’t call it that. I guess I’m just so glad we went with it, that we embraced it, that we were true to what felt right to us. I suppose I figure messes are rarely permanent, that we can almost always get things back to normal. For me, nothing made me happier than to see you kids discovering, learning, exploring, building, and creating. And while it made for a some unnecessary work on my part, it felt ok, like an investment, and totally worth it.
But you’re not me, and so maybe this all sounds a bit over-the-top to you. Your kids will need you to feel at home with yourself. To feel settled and confident with who you are. Because it helps them feel secure. When we’re ok with who we are, the natural extension is that we allow others—including our kids—to be. And so that’s my answer, sweet Avery. Be you. Embrace your style, what feels real. Teach them to sew and make fun decorations, hug and cuddle and watch old movies and teach them about all sorts of music you love, talk to them about all the causes you’re passionate about and let them help, run with them, and take your dogs, bring them thrift-store shopping and to cute eateries, scout out the vintage clothing stores, go to the drive-in. Have fun with them in ways that feel natural. There’s no way around it, kids will inevitably do all sorts of things that can make life feel out of control and crazy and your days long and your workload heavy, but you can alleviate extra stress by simply relying on your instincts and trusting your core. And by being your own kind of mom. (But don't be afraid of a less-than perfect house, you will never regret it later on.)
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