Mentor Moms

Once upon a time, I was young mom with two little boys who was determined to homeschool. A homeschooling mom who was a little older, with kids older and the same ages as mine, invited me to come shadow her for the day. A mentoring relationship was born, one for which I will always be grateful. Mary is no longer homeschooling, but, as our children get older and I find myself trying to navigate the even trickier waters of teens and young adults, she is still a mentor and I am reminded anew how blessed I am to have her.

So, when that mom, who is a writer too, asked me if I would help her hear what women are thinking about mentoring, I was happy to do so. 

Mary Hasson, asks, "I am writing a piece  on "mentor moms,"  focusing on the idea that  momswho are beyond the baby years have time and wisdom to share with their younger counterparts. [Some churches]  have established programs that bring younger moms and older moms together in those kinds of relationships.  In [other churches], these relationships seem to establish themselves more informally or organically.

" I would love to hear from your readers on two points:  If they are younger moms:  Would they be interested in a mentoring relationship with an older mom and, if so, what qualities would they look for? I'd love to hear their stories of moms who filled that role or how they found a mentor.

" For older moms:  Are they open to sharing their time and wisdom?  What do they feel they have to give? How would they begin such a relationship (suggesting it to a younger mom or wait to be asked)? Again, I'd love to hear stories of the mentors in their own lives or how they have become involved in mentoring younger moms (however informally)."

So, have you been blessed by a mentor? Have you reached out to mentor? Do you wish you had a mentor? Do you find mentors in your neighborhood, your parish, online?

You can reply here, in the comments, or you can write to Mary directly at catholicmentormoms@gmail.com.

Let's talk!

"I'm sorry; I can't do that."

It was a job I loved. Mostly, I worked from home, editing amagazine written for mothers at home, by mothers at home. Though I was one of the youngest women on the staff, I had considerable responsibility and creative license. I loved the writing; I loved the once or twice  monthly meetings in the office. And I was ever so grateful for the wise, thoughtful women who were personal mentors as much as they were professional colleagues.

So, it was with considerable regret that I resigned. I remember the moment of that decision. I had a new baby—my third—and we were camped out on my bed. He was nursing, propped up on my lap as I spread manuscripts into piles all over the bed and reached for them as best I could without detaching. It didn’t take much for the irony to strike.

I was working so hard to promote mindful mothering, to encourage smart women to choose home, and yet here I was shortchanging the most basic of all mothering experiences. I was leaning over my nursing baby to get to my work. I was wedging conversations with my young children between phone calls to writers and publishers. I was making all my editorial deadlines, often at the expense of the relationships under my roof. Some women were able to juggle all that and more with love and grace, but not me. Not well. It was time to acknowledge that I could do one thing well, but not both. There just wasn’t enough of me. I learned to say, “I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”

And I’ve said it again and again in the years since then.

I’m sorry, I can’t speak at that conference, though it would be a dream come true and I’m so honored that you thought of me.  [Y'all please go and tell me all about it.]

I’m sorry I can’t work on that project, though it tickles every creative bone in body.

I’m sorry, I can’t go to the homeschool support group meeting tonight.

I’m sorry, I can’t take that phone call, even though it’s a good friend and a chat would be a nice diversion right now.

Do you know about the rocks, the pebbles, and the sand? Go read it; I’ll wait.

I’m sorry, I just can’t do that thing that looks so good. I have to put the big rocks in first, and I have more big rocks than the average bear.

My son and I had a talk about time management recently and it forced me to sit and evaluate my “big rocks.”

I am committed to a life of prayer.

 I am committed to nurturing a marriage of grace.

 I am committed to raising nine faithful children.

Big, big rocks.

The rest is pebbles. And frankly, there’s not a whole lot of room for sand.

Living commitment to the big rocks is a decision.

Sometimes, as when I left the magazine or an online haven that had been a second home, it’s a big, huge decision.

More often, it’s a series of small decisions, like reading email but not stopping to answer it right away (or sadly, sometimes not ever) or forgoing lots of daily conversation with other women in order to save my words and my heart for the man who comes through the door at night.

Or the God who waits for me to talk with Him.

People often ask “how I do it.”

All too often, the answer is “not very well.”

But those are always the times when I haven’t said it.

“I’m sorry; I can’t do that.”

Dressing Room Discovery

I’m certain I’ve been dreading this event since before she was born.Beautiful girl child of mine — my little dash of femininity wedged between five boys. She has grown into a young woman, curves appearing where once there were straight lines. And now, it is time to go find clothes to fit the new figure.Read the rest here, please.

The "Plan" Part of Planning for a Peaceful Home

In prior columns, I’ve explored the ideas of a morning offering andof time set aside to listen and hear God. Now, for the “plan” part of the plan for a peaceful home.

We begin by offering the day to the Lord, opening ourselves to the grace He freely offers and ensuring that even our failures are redemptive. Then, during a time of spiritual reading and meditation, we listen to Him, and we resolve to do whatever He tells us to do that day. Usually, I write this resolution in a little notebook, where I can refer to it and remind myself of it throughout the day. The resolution fits within the context of my daily life, my work in the world, my vocation in the home. And it’s that “daily life” component that needs a clear direction.Read the rest here.

And then c'mon back and tell me your best planning tips in the comment box.

Here Comes the Sun

It started September 23rd. That was the first day of bedrest. For six weeks, I was confined to my house, my room, my bed. And then, there was a baby. And I was confined to the hospital, to the well-worn path to the NICU. We brought that sweet baby home. And the doctor said solemnly, "Keep her inside, away from crowds, and out of public places until the end of flu season. Probably late March." I tried not to cry. I reminded myself that I am an introvert, a homebody. I got to know the extraordinary ministers of the Eucharist. I counted my blessings and there were many.

But, slowly, I started to feel it creep in. The cold. The loneliness. My walls grew closer around me. The baby fussed. The big kids acted needier than the baby. I resolutely told myself a hundred times a day that this was not postpartum depression. We hit rock bottom.

A Package arrived in the mail. A lovely Package. A Package that made me smile to see the name in the sender's corner and brought tears to my eyes when I saw what it contained. It was a hat and booties--a darling hat that fit just perfectly. A hat with sweet hearts over baby's ears. Ah, but I sighed. We never go anywhere. And an urgent need made itself known. I had to get out of this house with the baby. I had to go somewhere worthy of The Hat.

Yesterday was one of my top five worst homeschooling days ever. And I can't even think of what the other four are. As I went to sleep last night, I remembered The Hat. I told Mike that I was taking the children to Bull Run. Bull Run--Home of the Bluebells--is the place where we go every year to herald the spring. It's the place where I am happy and relaxed and content just to be. It's our springtime. Gently, the love of my life reminded me that it is still February. Doesn't matter. I have The Hat. I had to be at Bull Run.

The day dawned a bit gray and windy, but not all that cold. The forecast was for rain by noon. No bother. I was up early. I had The Hat. I told the children the plan. Nicholas balked. He doesn't like rain. It's not a typical "not like," --it's sort  of a "thing" with him. It's a really big deal "not like."  I wasn't going to fight it. I told him he could stay home with Patrick. Christian had to go to art.No matter. This wasn't about them. It was about me. And my baby. And my place. And the Hat.

We took the familiar road and parked at a familiar place. We hiked in to "our spot," all the while noting how gray it all seemed. The landscape had changed. The log I posed the children on every year had  decayed to a point where no one could sit there. Right next to it, however, a new tree had fallen--bigger and sturdier and longer. "Just perfect," Katie declared. "There are too many of us now for the old log anyway."

Several trees had fallen. The top of their favorite climbing tree was now laying across the river. I thought of those windstorms last month, the tree that fell and claimed the life of a beloved pastor. I heard trees creaking around me and branches snapping in the not too distant distance. Good thing Nicholas stayed home, after all; he would not have enjoyed this time at all. We tried mightily to find signs of spring. There were a few small buds and some tiny shoots, no signs of the bluebells yet, though.

I snuggled my sleeping baby (she sleeps?) and breathed deeply of the fresh air. Oh! how this place speaks to me, even in its grayness. I thought of how much I missed it last fall, when the leaves were changing color, and my only glimpse of fall came in my inbox through the kindness of a friend's photos. I remembered my long talks with God and how begged him to grant me many springtimes to hang out with my children in the woods. I thought about how much I wanted to walk that trail with this baby. I breathed gratitude. And hope.

I just sat there, nibbled on pistachios, and watched the delight of my two-year-old as she saw this place anew.   Marveling at the familiarity and the changes, I understood that this place is ever old and ever new. My children looked different to me in the natural light. They were sweet and innocent and silly and fun. The baby slept soundly on my chest, warm and loved beneath The Hat. My head cleared. My shoulders relaxed. I had faith that I could get safely to the end of winter and reach confidently for the holiness of spring. Recalling that God has written two books, Scripture and nature, I resolved to read them both this Lent as my soul stretches and my face turns towards the Son.