That's what SHE said: kids ruining marriage, the ills of homework, giving crap to the poor, Africa and Ebola paranoia, and more . . .




Dear World: Let’s Stop Giving Our Crap To The Poor | We Are THAT Family
The poor may not have wealth, but they have dignity. I’ve met people without electricity or running water who swept their dirt floors daily, pressed their clothes neatly, walked miles to work on muddy roads, dodging sewage and never had a speck of dirt on them. They value their own worth, we should too.

Our Ignorance Of Africa Is More Dangerous Than Ebola | The Grio
The narrative about Africa has always been a simple, singular picture of the poor helpless, disease-ridden child with mosquitoes all over it. The continent is seen as one huge Sally Struthers commercial pleading for help, and the media will not let go of that depiction. While Africa does need aid, Africa is also rising. However, right now it’s seen as the Ebola zone. Like my shero Chimamanda Adichie said, “The single story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story.”

God In Adoption | Mommy Means It
It is damaging to tell a child that God called you to adopt her. This sets you up as a God-ordained savior to your child. It tells your child that she needed saving and that God did not choose her family of origin to do that saving. If your child comes from poverty or oppression, the message that God called you, an outsider, to adopt her, says that God didn’t care enough about her family or country to solve its problems so that families could stay alive and stay together. Instead, God played favorites and called you to swoop in and get her out of there, leaving her family and people to suffer while God figures out who to call for the next adoption. 


Houses in Murnau on Obermarkt by Wassily Kandinsky 

What Autism Has Taught Me...So Far | Little Miss Momma
I cringe when I think of the shame I projected onto him in an effort to help him fit better into a mold I had created in my mind of what my quintessential child would most certainly be like. A few weeks after our doctor gave us the news, I felt that mold shatter into a million tiny pieces. And I remember feeling relief. Screw the mold.

Under The Volcano | Anthony Bourdain


Americans love Mexican food. We consume nachos, tacos, burritos, tortas, enchiladas, tamales and anything resembling Mexican in enormous quantities. We love Mexican beverages, happily knocking back huge amounts of tequila, mezcal and Mexican beer every year. We love Mexican people—as we sure…


These are your crossfit friends. Source: youtube.com


Questions For My Son: Is It Hard Being The Only Black Boy In Your Grade? | Los Angelista
"The teachers talk to you more slowly and more simply, like they don’t think you’re going to understand what they’re talking about—like you’re slow, or like you don’t have any kind of vocabulary. For example, I notice when Mr. ___ talks to white and Asian kids, he talks to them in a normal way, but when he talks to me, he talks to me in a slang-ish way, throwing in all these other words. And I don’t talk like that. I don’t talk in slang. But they assume that because I’m black, I talk like I’m a rapper or something. People are also surprised when they find out I’m in the gifted program."

Paul Klee watercolor on paper Via Alongtimealone

How To Tell If Having Kids Will Ruin Your Marriage
If you were thrown into a bootcamp-style training situation with no idea how long it would last, how do you think you would fare? Because I think really the ability to weather the trials and tribs of parenting all comes down to this. You have no idea how it will be, so the only thing you can do is be ready to take whatever gets flung at you (ha, poop) for as long as it will be thrown. And like it and generally try to still be an amiable person others want to be around and talk to. Can you do that? Can you do that without being a total dick all the time? Can you do that and still laugh and love and change and improve yourself and all that other real adult crap?

Homework: An Unnecessary Evil? … Surprising Findings From New Research | The Washington Post
This result clearly caught the researchers off-guard. Frankly, it surprised me, too. When you measure “achievement” in terms of grades, you expect to see a positive result — not because homework is academically beneficial but because the same teacher who gives the assignments evaluates the students who complete them, and the final grade is often based at least partly on whether, and to what extent, students did the homework. Even if homework were a complete waste of time, how could it not be positively related to course grades?



In order to create actual changes to the sensory system that results in improved attention over time, children NEED to experience what we call “rapid vestibular (balance) input” on a daily basis. In other words, they need to go upside down, spin in circles, and roll down hills. They need authentic play experiences that get them moving in all different directions in order to stimulate the little hair cells found in the vestibular complex (located in the inner ear). If children do this on a regular basis and for a significant amount of time, then (and only then) will they experience the necessary changes needed to effectively develop the balance system–leading to better attention and learning in the classroom.


Let Me Make Your Kid A Buddhist | A Life Overseas
And we shrug a simple story like this off, but I wonder if this is the position we put parents and children in too often in pursuit sharing the gospel? And while we’ve had conversations here about offering humanitarian aid and it’s relationship to missions, we haven’t yet talked about the ethics of engaging with children in another culture– particularly without parental authority present.




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Friday Finds


1. Alan tee by Scout | Gilt 
2.  Hand block printed pillow cover | Toms 
3. 3/4-sleeved striped jersey dress | Old Navy 
4. Round live moss wreath | Zulily 
5. Pair of Mid-Century hairpin wire plant stands | Etsy 
6. Organic succulent ornament | Gilt 
7. Open-front cardigan | Old Navy 
8. Thai chicken quinoa bowl | How Sweet Eats
9. Printed canvas tote | Gap 

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What I want you to know about being a girl who Mrs. Hall would blog about

What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions. It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. If you would like to submit a story to this series, click here.  Today’s guest post is by Emily.

I was the second born of three and grew up in Southern California. I have been blessed with blonde hair, blue eyes, a thin frame, and my breasts fill a D cup. I now love my body but I used to hate it. I remember sitting on the top bunk that my little brother and I shared and feeling little bumps underneath my nipples, I was terrified that I had breast cancer, but I later figured out that those squishy bumps were boobs. I was nine years old when I started my period. By sixth grade I had a B cup and I hated my body. I wore thick, heavy sweatshirts in 90* weather because I didn't want anyone to notice my figure. My sweatshirts betrayed me though, coming home from sixth grade camp I remember sitting on the bus and looking back towards giggling boys as they air mimicked squeezing boobs right to me. I was caught. As I am writing this I can still remember the blood rushing from my body, feeling so embarrassed and violated and dirty. All feelings I knew too well because I was continually molested by a neighborhood kid over the course of a few years. Thankfully I have gone through many years of therapy with an extraordinary therapist who worked with me to overcome the abuse I went through. But before that, I rebelled. Oh boy did I ever become a rebel.

In eighth grade instant messaging was incredibly popular, and digital cameras were just beginning to become the photography norm. Instant messaging + digital cameras + hormonal pre-teens= naked pictures. I was bombarded with requests (non-stop begging and threats) to take these special pictures and send them to a couple boys, and because I wanted to be liked, because I had a history of abuse, because I was used to being used, because I was also hormonal and thought this was the way to interact and get boyfriends, I took many, many of these pictures. I am horrified to think of how many pictures of me are out there in cyberspace. I think of all the celebrities who are constantly getting their private pictures leaked, and think "Guess I can never be famous! Or if I do get famous, I need to make this a platform for educating teens!" You guys, there is no reason why I would be famous so don't worry.

I took naked pictures. I freak danced with a lot of guys. I drank. I smoked weed. I hooked up with guys. A lot of guys. I consensually lost my virginity at 15. I gave oral sex in cars. At 15, I had sex in a port-o-potty at Coachella. Let's all collectively gasp/shudder/go find a loved one to hug and tell them you love them. I was a Miley Cyrus. I was Mrs. Hall's WORST nightmare. If I was hanging out with a son of Mrs. Hall, I am pretty positive she would delete me from his life with no hesitation. Even though most of these guys went to my youth group, and we all went to a very prominent mega-church in the area, I would be the one called a slut. But guess what, I was still worthy of love, kindness, grace, friends, a healthy committed relationship, people who would have a conversation with me without telling me to put a sweater on because my boobs were making my brothers in Christ stumble.

My case seems extreme (yes, it is pretty crazy), but one in three girls in America have been sexually abused. I'm not saying that all abuse leads to this type of behavior, but it does lead to unhealthy habits in one way or another. Many of these choices were mine. Yes, I did physically take pictures of my boobs and send them to boys. Yes, I did consent to the sex I had as a teen. But I did so because that is how I was showed affection when I was little. Because the world is continually begging me to be sexy but then turning around and calling me a slut or skank because of my sexy behavior. Because the Church was always accusing me of causing boys to stumble or being an immodest girl for wearing a one piece bathing suit and showing my arms, legs, and neck at the beach when the boys weren't wearing shirts (plenty of crushes and fantasies started because of this... yeah girls notice that kind of thing too). Girls have it hard. In this culture we shove so many different expectations down their throats and ridicule them when they act in a way that is not what you prescribed. We need to be having an open dialogue with girls AND boys about healthy consensual relationships. We need to be talking to girls AND boys about what happens when you ask for a picture, send a picture, or receive one from a third party. We need to be teaching boys that girls are not responsible for their raging hormones. We need to be teaching girls that their raging hormones are not abnormal.

Last year I got married to a guy who was a virgin. I was worried when we started dating that he would never think I was worthy of being his wife because of my very sexual past. When I told him of this he seemed dumbfounded. He embraced me and told me that my past is what made me who I am, and that his admiration for me was immense. I'm so thankful that he was raised to know the worth of a human being based on the fact that they are human. He was raised to love without judgement or hate, and for that I am thankful. I want to be friends with the girls who Mrs. Hall shamed. I want to hang out with Miley Cyrus. I want to sit with them at a coffee shop and exchange life stories, and laugh with them, and tell them that they are beautiful.

I am currently getting my Masters in Social Work with the hope of working with incarcerated women with mental illnesses. I go to a wonderful tiny church where the congregation calls me sister even when I wear a tank top.  

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#TBT: Demolition mom

On Thursdays, I'm posting a favorite from the archives. This was from July, 2010.

Since Kembe came home from Haiti, we've been playing a bit of the musical chairs with our sleeping arrangements.  We have tried every combination imaginable. The girls have their own room, but India has the occasional night terror, which wakes up Karis, which results in a situation Mark and I lovingly refer to as "Girls Gone Feral".  It is usually resolved by bringing  one of the girls into our bed so they can at least scream it out in separate rooms.  Then the boys - I swear, Kembe is still on Haiti time.  He wakes up at the crack of dawn, whereas Jafta could happily sleep until 9am.  He could, that is, if he didn't have a little brother in his face at 5am baiting him into some sort of mischievous activity like writing on the walls or lining the bunk rail with playdoh because Kembe knows mommy and daddy are dead to the world.  In order to avoid this, we've been having Jafta sleep in our room.  But then Kembe gets jealous. And sometimes a girl (or two) has made her way into our bed, and somehow this happens:


Now I should mention that I am not a fan of the family bed theory.  If you wanna co-sleep and snuggle the night away with your kids, more power to you.  I have always been a hands-off kind of sleeper, and fortunately I married someone similar.  We have our cuddle - and then we retreat to our separate sides of the bed, leaving plenty of room for the Holy Spirit and a body pillow my husband resentfully affectionately calls the Joni Mitchell Wall.

Our family sleeping arrangements are endlessly on my nerves, because they aren't exactly conducive to sleep, and because having a kid or two n the bedroom is not  leaving us the space for that little activity that got us into this situation in the first place.  (You know what I'm talkin' about.  FILLING OUT HOMESTUDIES.  Bom chicka bow wow.)

And naptime is another story altogether.  All of these kids could still benefit from a nap, but none of them will actually sleep if a sibling is in the room.  So we rotate beds and rooms, and even my room has a toddler bed AND a pack-n-play in the corner to accommodate a child at naptime and in the middle of the night.  A little part of my soul dies every time I walk into my bedroom and see TWO beds for children in the corner.

The only solution I can come up with is that we need a fourth bedroom. Except, I don't want to move, and we can't afford an add-on.  One day, I started hunting around the house trying to figure out how we could bunk  one of these kids somewhere else.  The garage seemed a little neglectful. An airstream wouldn't fit in the breezeway (I measured).  The coat closet was a contender . . . but finally I set my sights for a little bit of attic space I assumed was above the closet in the boys' room.  I just knew there was some space up there that we could create into a little loft for Jafta.  We had our contractor friend come over and he agreed it was likely, but didn't have time to confirm.  A few weeks went by, and I was itching to get this project going.

Yesterday, I got a wild hair and decided to take a hammer to it myself.  I didn't consult with Mark on this plan.  The kids and I were having a quiet day at home, and I just decided: today was the day.  I grabbed our biggest hammer and told all the kids to come watch mommy bust up a wall.

 

 


The boys were THRILLED.  They were dancing around and cheering me on, and couldn't quite believe that I tearing up the house.  I think my status as "coolest mom ever" was forever sealed in their minds. I chipped away at that drywall, and the attic space was exactly what I thought it would be.  When Mark came home, I showed him what I had done, and after he got over the fear shock at my spontaneity, he was actually pretty excited. We started scheming how we could create an entrance to the space without blocking the closet int he bedroom, and decided that the linen closet in the hallway would be the perfect place for a hidden ladder.


After the kids went to sleep, Mark and I ripped out the ceiling of the linen closet. It was now about 10pm, but Mark was in the zone, too, and we continued clearing the space.  Kembe wasn't sleeping (perhaps because of the noise?) so we let him crawl up into the space with Mark while he worked.  He was SO excited.  He kept saying, "I love this!  I love my family!  I love you guys!"  Too cute.

 

(Last week Kembe was talking about life in Haiti, and he told me he had mommies (nannies) in Haiti, but he had never had a daddy.  I think he likes having a daddy). 

The next morning Jafta was so excited to find the passageway from the hallway.  He thanked  me profusely for "making him his own hideaway" - and I just think it's awesome that he credits me with building the whole thing.  Although Jafta is very insistent that we build an elevator in the hall closet space.  I told him I wasn't sure we could do that, and he explained that it would be very easy.  He even drew me the architectural plans:

 
Jafta's Hideaway Elevator Renderings

I'm sure that will be easy.  Now, the only problem is figuring out where to store our sheets.  Because the linen closet is currently full of adorable children.



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Open thread: Let's talk about pregnancy and infant loss

Today, October 15th, is National Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day . . . a day set aside to honor mothers who have lost their children to miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant loss. This is a topic that is close to me, as we had six miscarriages during our journey to build a family.



Miscarriage is such a lonely road. I could never have imagined how devastating it would be to lose a pregnancy. I think it is something no one can comprehend until you have been through it. And yet, so many of us have. I am still mystified by the cloud of secrecy that passes over this loss that so many of us have endured. I remember sitting with a group of about 10 women, all of whom I knew fairly well from church. The topic came up, and each and every one of us had experience pregnancy loss. I had no idea about most of them. Why the silent suffering?

I've talked a bit about how quiet I was about all of my pregnancies, and how the result was that I felt completely and utterly alone when I miscarried in secret. I hope that being open on my blog can help even one person who has suffered through this on their own. I hope that we, as women, can begin to take the taboo away from this topic and remember our children out loud.

And for all of my friends, family, and readers who have suffered loss: you are loved, and your child is honored today. I'm writing this post to create a space for you to remember your losses. 


Please feel free to leave a comment and share your story.



Just Ten Weeks
by Susan Erling

For just 10 weeks
I had you to myself.
And 10 weeks seems too short a time for
you to have changed me so profoundly.


In just 10 weeks
I came to know you ... and to love you.
You came to trust me with your life.
Oh, what a life I had planned for you!


Just 10 weeks
Then I lost you.
I lost a lifetime of hopes, plans, dreams, and aspirations.
A slice of my future simply vanished overnight.


Just 10 weeks
It wasn’t enough time to convince others
how special and important you were.
How odd, a truly unique person has died
recently, and no one is mourning the passing.


Just 10 weeks.
And no normal person would cry all night
over a tiny 10-week fetus, or get depressed
and withdrawn day after endless day.
No one would, so why am I?


You were just 10 weeks, my little one. You
darted in and out of my life too quickly.
But it seems you only needed 10 weeks to
make my life so much richer and give me a
small glimpse of eternity


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