There are times in teaching when I feel like a failure.

The second to last week of school I cried in front of my students, tears streamed down my face and I didn't wipe them away. I read a book that means something to me and to them.  I didn't think about my job, instead I got caught in the moment. The book was raw with emotions and humor and I let myself feel them in front of everyone.

I shared my heart with my kids

When I cried, they didn't laugh, they stared at me with eyes of love and compassion.  They knew why these quotes were so meaningful to me.

And then, after class was over, I cried alone because I realized that this is what I missed this year.  Don't get me wrong, I was real with my students, I always am, but my heart didn't enter the classroom the way it has in the past, because I was guarded. Throughout this rough year, I lost a little of what brought me to this profession. I lost my ability to let myself be me in front of my students to the extent I am used to.

I began this school year on the defense. I had a parent who doubted and questioned everything I did, said, how I felt about their child, how I acted, and the way I taught. 

As a teacher, we face this often, but this was different. This parent stuck with me all year. This parent made me doubt myself as not only an educator, but as a person.

I feel like I've failed. I did my job; I taught the standards, graded essays, provided timely feedback, made parent communication, made meaningful student connections, and worked to make lessons relevant and substantial for my student population. But, in my mind it was never enough.

After 7 years teaching 8th grade I've decided to move to 6th grade. While this opportunity is exciting and I'm fortunate to look forward to a great team of 6th grade teachers, I can't help but feel like I'm quitting 8th grade.

I feel like I'm giving up... but in teaching, we don't give up.

I'm not running to an easier position, as each grade has their own difficulties, but I do feel like I'm running away from a position that I fell short of achieving.

I've blamed my rough year on; a difficult group of kids, being unable to balance work and my own three little ones, my long commute, and 8th grade behaviors that have gotten to me... but reality is I blame myself more than anything.

So, to parents who struggle with their child in the school system, please know that we cry and think about your kid all the time.  I know he/she is your baby and I know that their success and struggles are always on your mind, I'm a mom too... but I am also a teacher who cries on my car ride home and before I got to bed. I cry about your child's behavior, your child's struggles, how I'm going to best handle them the next day, and how I'm going to help them grow as a student and person. I take to heart all of your words, they not only change my actions in the class, but my life choices. Just as we would never want your child to feel like a failure, teachers never do their job expecting to fail or fall short. 

Sunday evening coming down...

On Sunday night, as the weekend washes off of me and the kids fall asleep, I roll over in bed and lay my hand on Michael's chest and my heart aches... for my babies.  I miss them.  I want each of them snuggled up against us through the late night hours; kicking, moving, pinching, and breathing their heavy baby breaths.  I want my babies with me. These babies, that I've diverted or fought off at times weekend, I need and want them in my arms.  My body physically aches for them.

This is the dichotomy of being a mother

We want our babies to need us, but the neediness is also deflating.

The weekend is what we work for, but it isn't always smiles and sunshine. Often, I tell the kids that, "Mommy can't be touched right now," because those adorable little hands I created can feel overwhelming.  The title "mamma" that I prayed to hear and work daily to deserve, can be daunting when sung in rounds by each child at any and every given moment.

I cry because I feel bad that I cry over being a mother, the guilt that it isn't always the easiest of jobs and that I'm probably messing it up runs deep.

It's only a few years.

It's only a few years that I am blessed to be exhausted on the weekend.
It's only a few years that I am fortunate enough to have healthy babies keeping me on my toes.
It's only a few years that Michael and I get to smile over the chaos and be thankful that we have actually received exactly what we spent years working for.

Those three little ones who are peacefully sleeping across the hall, those hearts that beat pure, and those warm souls I want so badly to cuddle, will thankfully still be there in the morning. So, I relax into my bed and try to forgive myself.

...But, you better believe that if those little voices and tiny hands come reaching for me and calling mamma in the middle of the night, that I will happily welcome the cuddles.   

Camping, because we love to clean and pack and wash and clean!

This weekend was our season opener for camping! Our trip was perfect, except that everything went wrong.  

Our battery was dead (I admit I like to camp with heat), we forgot Michael's clothes,the kids screamed a lot, we forgot Eliza's pajamas and HER PACIFIER (seriously, first night without a paci was in the middle of the woods #fortheloveofgodstopcrying), we left 2 hours late, the kids fought, we ran out of snacks pretty fast, we had to drive back to our house mid-trip for Michael's clothing and a new battery only to find out that our thermostat wasn't working either, the kids cried, it rained, and because Brooks never thinks before he does, he ran out of clothes really fast. 

The thing is, camping and traveling with kids isn't always rewarding.  There are times when you want to punch yourself in the face because everything is going to shit. The part that people often forget, is that the kids don't know that.  The kids don't know when stuff isn't going as planned.  All my kids knew was that we had a solitary camping site with a stream to swim in and tons of trees to kick and knock over.

My boys stop and say "I love you mom and dad," whenever they are having the time of their lives.  While we were camping, they said this countless times; mid jumping in the stream, Brooks shouted how much he loved us, as he was kicking down a dead tree, Beckett paused to say he loved us, and Lizie would stop mid chasing her brothers to come in for a deep hug. Over and over again, our kids told us how much fun they were having without uttering those exact words.

We were in the mountains less than 48 hours. It took us two evenings to plan and pack, an entire day and half of laundry, an hour to scrub the pop-up and vehicle, and lots of busy work throughout the trip... so why do we camp?

We camp because our kids are wild souls and when we see them run through the woods and play in streams, we know they are home.

We camp because it gets us out of the house.

We camp because when camping, something about our marriage seems perfect; we have nature, beer, fire, mountains, and each other. 

We camp because those are the memories I remember most fondly from my childhood. 

We camp because our children LOVE being close to us, and one day that may end. 

We camp because our pop-up once belonged to Michael's uncle, who left this world too soon, and something about having our kids enjoy camping in his pop-up feels like Michigan and home and family.

We camp because we love Colorado, the mountains, traveling, seeing everything from the seat of our car, and feeling the ground under our feet. 

We camp for moments like this...

We do it for the same reason that any parent does anything where the work you put in is often greater than the take away... for our children.  Maybe they won't remember all of our camping trips and maybe some day they will resist our travels, but for the time being, I hope that camping leaves a positive impact on them.  I hope my children appreciate nature, that they continue to be wild and unruly, and that camping keeps us close as a family.  

Exhaustion Waterfall

I remember being in grad school; student teaching during the day, classes at night, and going home to lesson plan until late. It was draining. Once, I woke and called in sick because I was physically and mentally exhausted.  I slept all day and through my classes.  It was an exhaustion I'd never known.

And then, I had a kid... and another... and another.

That mind numbing and life sucking exhaustion is now my life, a life I lead all while raising three kids and teaching 120 of them.

Newborns can be exhausting, especially if they like to party and drink it up all night. Toddlers keep you on your toes, you never quite know if they are discovering something new and exciting or something new and deadly. But the energy level of my children, hell the energy level of Brooks alone, knocks me down regularly.

Resting means shit is going to go down; limbs will be lost, glass will break, and the house will go up in flames, so we keep busy.  When one of us naps, the other has to work triple time, causing the exhaustion waterfall.

Exhaustion waterfall: When exhaustion rains down on you because your attempting to help your partner, who is already beyond exhausted, and then said exhaustion gets so heavy that it pours out of every aspect of your life and you're drowning in it. 

By Sunday, life had caught up to me.  Michael took the kids and let me sleep in until 10. (Normal rise and shine time is 5 a.m.) I headed downstairs fully charged and ready and then I found this...

What Waterfall Effect

Poor Michael, in his attempt to give me some relief, had succumbed to the kids kicking the crap out of him. Hard. He had been beaten. There are simply times when you can not stay awake, no matter how hard you try.  I tagged him out and told him to go upstairs to rest, assuming my rest would power me through the day, but one trip to Costco with the kids had me back at exhausted.

There is never enough sleep.

My mind is always racing and tracing the steps of my children. I wonder all the time if they are behaving, if they are polite.  I worry about their academic growth. Thoughts that I am not enough for them, or that I'm failing as a mom hurt my chest.

The mental exhaustion is just as bad as the physical.

Before you judge me for complaining about this beautiful miracle that it is to be a mother, know that I love it.  I love it very much... that is WHY I AM EXHAUSTED.

I love every belly kiss and nose to nose cuddle. I love worrying and dreaming about their futures. I love having movie nights in our bed because Michael and I can't keep our eyes open a second longer.

And what if we didn't have these little people that we define ourselves by, who would we be?

As we were rushing out the door this morning Beckett was crying, Eliza wailing, and Brooks was running around the house like a cruise director planning his evening events. Michael, the boy I fell in love with as he was playing high school football, and who was NOT known for his attention to detail or acknowledgment of emotions; calmly gave Beckett an extra kiss goodbye, cradled Eliza in his arms, helped Brooks decide on his snack, and then patiently sat and read to our little girl. On our way to school I got the boys doughnuts, a double espresso for myself, and we sang our favorite songs.

This is what parenting has done to us, it has turned us into people who can turn a bad start to a day around, people who can focus on others before themselves. It has opened Michael's heart in a way I never knew possible and caused me to realize that simple things can bring joy.  I don't know who we would be without our kids, but I love the people we have become with them.  Yes, we are exhausted, but we are also better.

The first rule of home projects is: You don't talk about home projects.

Five years into our marriage, and 7 months pregnant with our first, Michael and I decide to complete our little boy's bedroom. My mother had painted the week prior, the furniture was in, and we just needed to cut and hang the chair rail.

We were exactly 3 minutes into the project before curse words were flying. Michael stormed out of the room, to which I told him "I can do it on my own!" His response, "Good luck!"

Grumbling and complaining under my breath, I worked to prove him wrong. In my head, I plotted the day I would tell my son that "Mommy hung this chair rail for you because SHE loves you so much." (Because obviously little boys care about those things). Based off of the noise coming from outside, I was led to believe that Michael was digging a trench around our house, using heavy equipment. He was fuming. 

Two hours later, as I was finishing up, I opened the door to find Michael in the hall

"How did it go?"

"It was tough, but I think I did a great job."

We entered the room together and he genuinely complimented me on my hard work. We didn't talk about the fight, we just moved on.

Our ability to disagree isn't just confined to household projects. Cleaning causes me to twist my hair so much that pieces begin to fall out and that little vain in Michael's temple to pop.  Our beliefs and practice on cleaning are fundamentally different.

Michael cleans like it's his last day on Earth, judgement is about to be thrown down from above, and his eternal fate is hanging on our home being spotless. He rushes through the house cleaning at the same rate our boys rush through the house terrorizing it. I, on the other hand, don't like to fight the chaos. I wait until things settle, and then I get started, slow and steady. To me cleaning is a process not a task.
Don't worry, I'm not naïve, I'm sure he would describe my cleaning style as someone "waiting for someone else to do it first."  

Thing is, we aren't going to change much.  Sometimes, we go to bed mad. We often speed through the evenings barely acknowledging the others hard work.  We can be selfish.

BUT, we also have other things we do exceptionally well together.  Last summer we went camping 6 times with our 3 kids under age 4... and each trip was amazing. (Okay, we all survived and we remember the trip fondly)  We've moved several times, across several states, and bought a home together. We continually work on how we want to raising our kids together; we make joint decisions, always have each other's backs, and would never go against what the other feels is important. With kids, they are the only ones we have to worry about winning.

It's a process.  We won't ever clean the same. Sometimes Michael takes the kids for a trip to the park so I can get work done, or he leaves work a little early so he can clean up before the weekend.  We work on thanking the other person.  We work on noticing what they have done even if it isn't "our" way.

I see people's advice on marriage about not going to bed mad or learning to pick your battles, etc.  We don't always pick the best battles and we don't always talk it out before bed, but we love each other. We love each other despite our problems. We love each other enough to know that some things don't need to be talked to death and sometimes a kiss in the morning before work is all the "I'm sorry" the other person needs... and we try to stay away from home projects.

To my first baby, on your fifth birthday.

To Beckett: On your upcoming 5th birthday.

With wonder in your eyes and a soul beyond your years, you follow your daddy around, learning and questioning everything. Watching you learn and hearing you understand something new is something I never knew could bring such joy to our lives. You were the first baby to kick in my belly and yours was the first heart beat that stopped time for your daddy and me.


While you are still our little boy, you grew up fast, so much faster than most. At 13 months you welcomed your first sibling and I asked you to "help mommy with the baby," yet you were still a baby yourself. And then, just after your 3rd birthday we welcomed your second sibling and you gained the responsibility of "playing with" your little brother while "mommy took care of baby sister," even though you had just mastered potty training. 

I know these events have shaped you into a person who takes such good care of others, but I can't help but worry that you were robbed time to just be our baby.  I'm sorry your time alone with daddy and me was short, but know that that one year alone with you, is a year in our memories and hearts forever. That was the year we learned we could be parents and knew we could do it again.

As you grow, I want you to know that you do not have to carry the weight of being the eldest sibling through life. Yes, you are the oldest, but that only means you were born first, not that you have to pave the way or set an example. Sure, setting a good example is always great, but don't let that dictate your life's decisions. Please don't fall victim to taking the safe route just because you don't want to disappoint.  Be brave, jump. 

I worry about you the most. I see a lot of myself in you, and I'm sorry if you have inherited my struggles. With two families littered with mental health issues, ranging from depression and alcoholism to bipolar and eating disorders, your mental health future is a terrible game of Russian Roulette. I see the anxiety on your face and feel the tension in your body when daddy is gone on business trips.  I hear your teeth grind at night.  I see in you, lots of things I dislike in myself; but you are only turning five! Please let me carry your weight and burdens.

I don't want you to lose your lovable little boy giggle too soon.

No matter what, know that you are resilient and strong.  You came into this world 6 weeks early and tore off every breathing device they tried to provide for you. The first words your daddy said to me after walking you down to the NICU were "He's so strong, he held my finger so tight the entire time." You were and are strong. You came home only a week after your birthday and weighing under 5lbs.

I'm sorry if you already feel life's pressures because you are the oldest and we often expect and ask so much of you, but I'm not sorry that you have two siblings who adore and look up to you. You are Brooks' hero and Eliza's night in shining armor. 

Pressure or not, mental health issues or not, you will be fine. 
I know this because being the oldest has not hindered your father, but propelled him to success. 
I know this because mental health has not broken me, but allowed me to be empathetic to others.
I know this because you are not your father nor your mother; you are Beckett and you are loved.

Happy Birthday Little Man.  Stay sweet, stay strong, and keep being you.