Mothers, Daughters, Subversive Tea Towels and Being “Seen”

nadia tea towel.JPEG

Last fall, I had made plans to hear Nadia Bolz-Weber speak in Dubuque, IA. This just happened to coincide with a trip my mom was making to see us in Iowa. At the risk of wondering what she might think, I invited her along. I guess I worried how mom might fare with Nadia – her expansive, sometimes unorthodox, theology, her radical, post-modern imagining of the church, and, you know, her embrace of the F-bomb. But then I thought of other things I’ve asked mom to take me to, and I relaxed.

As a kid I was excited about The Nightmare Before Christmas, an animated Tim Burton musical about a bunch of ghouls and ghosts who are always prepared for Halloween but then one day become fascinated with Christmas. Mom didn’t get it, but she took me to see it anyway. When I turned seventeen, my sister got me tickets to Tori Amos for my birthday, but then she couldn’t go. Once again, not her thing, but mom took me. And now, here I was embarking on a mini road trip with my mom and a carload of UCC clergywomen, to hear my favorite writer and theologian talk about her journey from recovering addict and stand-up comedian to being called by God to become an ELCA Pastor.

Despite my unnecessary anxieties, mom enjoyed herself; the company, the presentation, the theology. And when it was over, she bought two books and got them signed.

A few weeks passed, and my mom was busy creating things in her sewing room; truly, her sanctuary and prayer chamber. “I’d like to embroider you some towels that say ‘Kendra’s Kitchen,’ or something like that.” It was a kind gesture, but I admitted to mom that that sentiment wasn’t really my thing. “What if they said things like: ‘But First, Coffee’ or ‘I Mom So Hard’? Or ‘Speak Truth to Stupid’?” — a saying we both heard for the first time at Nadia Bolz-Weber’s lecture.

I could almost hear her bewilderment over the phone, but being a mom who loves her unusual daughter, to my sheer delight she fulfilled my request. She sent me four of the plushest towels I’ll ever dry dishes with, embroidered beautifully with those phrases. And yes. Even Nadia Bolz-Weber’s: “Speak Truth to Stupid.”

A few more weeks passed and I learned that Nadia Bolz-Weber would be here, in our own Quad Cities, speaking as a part of Augustana College’s “Symposium Day.” Knowing I already had all her books signed, I knew just what to do. After Nadia’s riveting presentation on our need for a sexual reformation in the church, I hightailed it to the book-signing line, with no book in hand. Instead, I had my “Speak Truth to Stupid” tea towel, trimmed with leopard print and lace, tucked away in a Ziplock bag under my arm.

My body buzzed with adrenaline and espresso as I approached Nadia’s place at the book-signing table where she was sitting with an intense look on her face. I almost got skipped in line because I didn’t have a book, but I pushed myself forward and thrust my parcel at her. I told her the story of how my mom wanted to embroider me towels that said ‘Kendra’s Kitchen,’ but that that wasn’t really my jam. I asked her to inscribe something else on the towels, and that’s when Nadia looked down to see her own words, craftily adorning my kitchen linens.

I stood back and watched as the intense writer and pastor flung her head back and let out the most joyful laugh. (My friend Stephanie captured the above picture.) As I walked away from the table, Nadia waved to me and said, “See ya, Kendra.”

You know, it is a deeply holy experience when you feel like you’ve actually been “seen.” That’s what that day was for me. Not just that a theologian-writer-pastor “saw” me or even that my friends understood this wacky desire to have a towel signed. But truly, it was the trifecta of those two encounters and my mom taking the time to accompany me to hear Nadia Bolz-Weber, one hundred miles from home, and then investing time and energy into making me some deeply meaningful tea towels, one that is now even autographed.

Yes, it is a joy to be known and to be seen. Thanks, mom.


Kendra Thompson is a part-time minister and full-time mom living in Davenport, Iowa. In her spare time, when she's not at the mall, she blogs at Cry Laugh Snort.

The Imperfect Table

 Photo and post by Leslie Klipsch

Photo and post by Leslie Klipsch

Ever since I can remember, my mother has thrown a lovely Christmas Eve dinner party. It’s a dressed-up affair that begins right after Christmas Eve Mass with shrimp cocktail, stuffed mushrooms, and oyster stew, and ends—after huge platters of lasagna are served and enjoyed—with dessert (vanilla ice cream for the kids and a Grasshopper for the adults). One particularly merry eve when I was around ten, the dinner plates were cleared and my mom unveiled something new she had spent the afternoon making—a beautiful blueberry cream cheese tart with a crumbly, homemade pecan crust.

My dear mother. It was obvious within the first few bites that the crust was severely burnt. The guests were having trouble chewing and swallowing, though everyone—friends and family alike—was too polite to mention it, instead carrying on pleasant conversation while reaching for their water glass.

Our parish priest, still in his collar, was seated at our table and he ventured to use the side of his fork to casually (but determinedly) cut his next polite bite. Before we knew it, a quarter-size piece of burnt pecan crumble crust shot across the table like a bullet and landed on my grandmother’s plate.

All eyes quickly turned to my mother to measure her response. To everyone’s relief, she broke out in raucous laughter and we all followed suit, howling until we had tears in our eyes. The niceties were over; the crust was a flop. But the dinner party? Still fabulous.

Of course, this is not exactly how my mother had hoped her tart would turn out that year. It’s also probably not the one moment out of three decades of beautifully prepared Christmas Eve dinners that she would hope to have been crystallized in my mind forever, but it is. I treasure this memory because it highlights the joy found in imperfection. My mother is a gifted hostess whom I admire immensely. However, on that Christmas Eve in the late eighties, her piecrust was not perfect.

The holidays are so often fraught with anxiety and expectation. We worry about everything from money to menus to being face-to-face with the pain of fractured relationships. We struggle to provide magic for those around us and we stress over creating long-lasting memories with every move we make. If only we would let go of some of those long-held expectations and loosen our grip on the quest for perfection. In doing so, we might welcome a better season, one during which we are free to enjoy the depth of relationships and the promise of joy without the heavy weight of flawlessness.

#momtheology: Jael the Kenite and the ‘Me Too’ Hashtag

In the days of Jael, caravans ceased

and travelers kept to the byways…

Most blessed of women be Jael …

She put her hand to the tent peg

and her right hand to the workmen’s mallet;

she struck Sisera a blow, she crushed his head,

she shattered and pierced his temple.

~Judges 5:6,24,26

Several years ago, at the suggestion of a spiritual guide, I got back into jogging. I woke early every morning and went out on the Spring Creek bike path near our condo and I ran until I was tired, then came back home. More than just exercise, it was a way to sort through what was in my head; to deal with my anxieties, worries, fears. And it worked. I would say that it turned out to be sound advice to run.

But I noticed something every morning. I’d get about a quarter mile from my front door, accelerate up a berm on the trail, and then, struck with some sense of fear, I’d turn around and look behind me, expecting to find someone there. And not just anyone, but an assailant – someone who might push me down and harm me.

I’d think it was just a fluke deal, except it happened every day, and always at that same spot on the trail. I put the image out of my head each day when I got home figuring I was just paranoid or being too sensitive.

But at some point, after weeks of this sensation, I told a clergy friend. “Am I crazy?” I asked, after telling her my story. No, she affirmed. She, too, had experienced this fear and dread when walking alone.

I’m not going to assume this experience is universal, but it seems common enough. To walk or run alone as a woman is to tango with the risk of harm to one’s well-being.

I hadn’t thought about that visceral experience on the bike trail, nor the scripture from the Old Testament book of Judges that I quoted above, in quite some time. But something triggered those recollections. And it is something that has maybe triggered other women’s memories this week, too.

If you hadn’t guessed it, “me too” is trending on social media. This originated after allegations were made that Harvey Weinstein, cofounder of Miramax, had sexually harassed countless women and raped several others, including prominent actresses like Gwyneth Paltrow.

To further exacerbate this recent news, recorded footage of Weinstein harassing women was released and subsequently denied by the accused.

This possibly could be overlooked, explained away as the everyday debauchery of Hollywood, but unfortunately it is a narrative that sounds eerily familiar to another misogynist harasser with power and money. That’s right, I’m talking about President Donald Trump.

So many of us are raising our voices to say it is not okay. It wasn’t then, it isn’t now, and it should not be a part of our narrative in my daughter’s future.

Some of us, you might say, are praying for a reversal.

And for me, all day yesterday, as I read my friends’ "me toos" I thought of a lesser known scripture from the Old Testament.

If you aren’t familiar, during the time of ancient Israel when a Prophetess named Deborah served as judge, the Israelites were being oppressed by the Canaanites in Hazor. Deborah learned that King Jabin’s men, led by a soldier named Sisera, would be heading her way, so she alerted Barak from Kedesh to be ready with more arms, more men, more horses. Sisera was surprised when he advanced Mount Tabor and found his enemy prepared for his arrival. His fleet was destroyed, and the mighty oppressor fled the battlefield on foot, hoping for safety with a neutral family of peasants in the tribe of Heber. Instead, he met his end. Asking Jael, the wife of Heber, for water, instead he was given a warm cocktail. Hoping to rest on his sojourn back home, instead he meets a swift death, his brain penetrated by a humble tent peg. Who could have seen that coming?

Jael_tuant_Sisera_01.jpg

I’m not a man-hater. It’s probably silly that I even have to make that disclaimer. Because highlighting unacceptable behavior on the behalf of some men does not indict all. But it does open eyes that might deny that such a reality exists. I mean, what would cause millions of women to share the two words “me too” publicly, in a flood of Facebook posts?

Here’s what I recall from my own historical narrative of compromised safety and sexual harassment.

I remember hanging around a campfire at the Lake of the Ozarks with my boy cousins and my grandparents’ hired hand, a man who went by the name ‘Dody.’ I thought nothing of it. We kicked logs into the fire and he told a few jokes. But later, when I went into the house, my grandmother was overly concerned. “I don’t want you alone with him,” she said firmly. “He’s not family, he works for us.” I puzzled at her fear. Why were my boy cousins allowed at the fire and I wasn’t? Why was an untrustworthy man allowed to be around the house – if his presence around her granddaughters scared my grandma so much?

I was maybe eleven years old then.

I remember my first supervisor, or one of them, when I was in high school. He was a middle-aged pool salesman, who jokingly suggested one day that I wear something more “low cut” to work.

I was fifteen.

I remember a peer my junior year in high school calling me over to the lockers so he could make a lewd comment about what I was wearing. That day, as per my punky-usual attire, I was dressed in thrift store Levis and a vintage polo shirt. I remember feeling like no matter what you do, as a young woman, you are at the mercy of objectification. I fell to tears in my classroom across the hall.

I was sixteen.

There are other stories, too. In my early twenties, I left an iconic bar in Austin where I had anticipated seeing a quintessential Austin performer, Toni Price, because an overly intoxicated man was squeezing through the crowd simply to brush up against all the women gathered there. I sacrificed that fun night out because I did not want to be harassed.

We may not live in a world of ancient Prophetesses, desert tent-dwellers, and songs heralding the deadly tent peg of a peasant woman.  But I do think for some of us when we proclaim “me too” we are actually praying for a reversal of power. We are tired of expecting compromised safety is the norm, and like Jael’s tent peg, our enumerated “me toos” say: it’s time to listen - we mean it this time.

#momtheology: My Soul Proclaims Your Greatness, O God! (And My Hands Prepare PBJ Sandwiches)

 "Madonna of the Laptop" by Ashley Norwood Cooper

"Madonna of the Laptop" by Ashley Norwood Cooper

 A Mom’s Daily Office

It’s nine o’clock p.m., so I wonder: what prayer of the daily office goes with putting my one-year-old to bed, for the third time?

This is the way my mind works, at least lately, as I try and groove with interruptions that are just the normal parts of mom life. I could be mad about them, and sometimes I am, but when I am able to chill and roll with it, I try to see these moments as sacred pauses, holy in and of themselves.

If I were a Benedictine nun, part of my calling would involve pausing throughout the day to pray, to sit in silence, read scripture, and worship God with my sisters. If I were a Trappist monk, maybe I’d up the ante and sleep on a cushionless board on the floor or wear a humble habit to remind me of my commitment to servitude.

But I am neither of these. I am a mom.

Even so, I am trying to see a connection between the sacred calling of the cloistered life and the blessed vocation of motherhood. When I can remain here, in this healthy and calm perspective, I engage in something the monks and nuns do: I pray the daily office.

What is it exactly?

For those in sacred orders, they rehearse the “liturgy of the hours” pausing to pray six or seven times throughout the day.

I have yet to complete the full schedule in the span of twenty-four hours, but find myself asking throughout the day—especially times of stress or challenge, but also moments of joy—"I wonder which prayer is happening right now?"

And then, thanks to the lovely internet, I look them up so I can pray with my monastic brothers and sisters even as I sit here at my own dining room table.

And because I am who I am—a millennial pastor who can’t seem to keep her fidgety fingers off social media—sometimes I tweet my prayers. Here are some examples:

(Early A.M.)          “May what is false within us

                               Before your truth give way

                               That we may live untroubled

                               With quiet hearts this day.”

                               -Stanbrook Abbey Hymnal #morningprayer

 

(Morning)              My soul proclaims your greatness, O God!

(And my hands prepare pbj sandwiches.)

#feastofascension #morning prayer

 

(Afternoon)           In the spirit of Psalm 119 & in

thanksgiving for a nap: Revive me, O God,

& restore this fridge full of decay,

too, please. #afternoonprayer

 

(Evening)               Great River Nut Brown, Psalm 91,

& Today’s Hottest Country, WLLR.

#nightprayer

 

(Dawn)                   Baby back to sleep, Psalm 51, silent house.

#dawnprayer

As a mother, life is going to include interruptions. Disturbances of sleep, for me, are the hardest. So when I have to rise at dawn to console a restless child, I also try to calm my own restless mind with prayer.

 


Kendra Thompson is a part-time minister and full-time mom living in Davenport, Iowa. In her spare time, when she's not at the mall, she blogs at Cry Laugh Snort.

Mother’s Day Gifts: Eight Ideas for the Mama Bear in Your Life

Mama Bear. She’s strong, she’s sensitive, she’s socially minded. If you’re lucky enough to have a Mama Bear in your life, we know you’ll want to honor her on Mother’s Day. Check out these thoughtful, big-hearted gifts sure to make even the fiercest Mama Bear swoon.

1. Beaded Earrings from Tanzania

Because of the sponsorship of mom-artist, Mama-Bear, and #girlboss Jen VanOort of Onion Grove Mercantile, 100% of the purchase of a pair of red beaded earrings ($30) made by Maasai women in Tanzania will go to women’s empowerment programming in poor, rural areas of Tanzania. Empower Tanzania works to prepare women for success in sub-Saharan Africa through education and specialized training in healthcare, agriculture, and small business. Learn more about their work at www.empowertz.org and purchase a set of earrings HERE.

2. Uprising Apparel

A “Be the Light” tank ($28) is a double win. Uprising Apparel is a Mama Bear company in that they offer stylish, inspiring apparel that shares a message of hope while helping to raise vulnerable children out of poverty. The purchase of this tank will help bring light and hope to vulnerable children in Uganda through educational initiatives and will provoke goodness in anyone who reads the message.

3. FashionABLE Bag

We love this leather bag ($148) handcrafted in Ethiopia almost as much as we love the philosophy behind the company who produces it. FashionABLE believes in creating jobs for those lacking opportunity and that those jobs should be held by women. This Mama Bear mission is one we want to support: to end generational poverty, we must empower people to provide for themselves.

4. Minivan Makeover

American moms with children of a certain age tend to spend an astonishing amount of time in their minivans. Concentrate your efforts on pampering her where she’s at! In other words, clean that baby until it sparkles. If you’re detail-oriented and not afraid of elbow-grease, you can perform the task yourself ($0). If you supervise and demand a certain level of excellence, the kids can do it ($0). Otherwise, the local full-service car wash will get the job done ($49-$249). (If you choose to hire someone, find a black, female, or immigrant-owned business to support for bonus Mama Bear points.)

5. Mama Bear’s Manifesto

Mama Bear’s Manifesto: A Moms’ Group Guide to Changing the World ($14) is a book that honors moms and asks women of all ages to poke at the power they hold within. It’s a celebration of women, of friendship, and of the incredible power of motherhood. This book will inspire and reassure moms of all ages and is perfect for Mother’s Day. Ten percent of all sales is donated to The Adventure Project. Available at Target, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, and other major bookstores.

6. LSTN Earbuds

If she loves listening to podcasts, she’ll probably love listening to her favorite shows (ahem, Mama Bear Dares!) on these zebra wood earbuds ($49). Not only are they gorgeous and do they produce great sound, but every LSTN purchase helps give hearing aids to someone in need. (Also, we’re drooling over LSTN’s wireless, over-ear Troubadors ($179). They’re a bit pricier but MUCH harder to lose!)

7. Spa Treatment

Encourage her self-care routine by giving the Mama Bear in your life a gift certificate for a spa service (massage, facial, mani/pedi; $30 and up) ... and then make sure she makes time to use it. And remember, Mama Bears love lifting their sisters up—enhance the meaning of this gift by spending your dollars at a local, female-owned business. Pair the gift with vegan, non-GMO bath bombs for complete thoughtfulness.

8. Sustainable Shades

If she has a kid or two, she’s probably responsible enough to hold on to a pair of quality, sustainable shades, right? Invest in a pair of Woodwear eco-friendly, sustainable sunglasses and the Mama Bear in your life will feel fancy and in good conscience all summer long. Woodwear Sunglasses are handmade out of sustainable bamboo in the U.S.A. Favorites: Breck Woods ($90) and classic tortoise Malibus ($60).

Confessions of a Thirty-Five-Year-Old Mallrat

35yrmallrat.jpg

In 1995, there was a movie. Granted, it wasn’t a great movie, but at least it was crass and juvenile. I’m talking about Mallrats. Food court debates, break ups and of course, Jay and Silent Bob doing their thing – whatever that is.

I’m not saying this movie sums up my life or anything, but lately I do spend an inordinate amount of time at the mall. I guess you could say: I’m a thirty-five-year-old mallrat.

I blame my children. And the Midwest.

I had my first child at the tail end of a polar vortex which struck Iowa in the first part of 2014. Being hospitalized, becoming a new mother, these things already cam make you feel stir crazy. But when you can’t even go outside because, with wind chill, it’s twenty degrees below zero? You figure out some way to get out of the house.

For me, I took my tiny baby to the mall.

I prided myself on a practice I call “Exploiting the Mall.” I discovered the free coffee sample, which varies daily, at the kitchen store, I located bathroom stalls big enough to contain a mom, a baby, and a stroller, I scouted out quiet places to feed my son and I often left my shopping experience having spent ten dollars or less.

As he’s gotten older, I’ve passed on “Exploiting the Mall” to my son. We visit Build-a-Bear, which may as well be a bear museum, because we never buy anything. We ‘ride’ the trains -feeding no quarters to the mechanical amusements that go nowhere. And after these rounds, we often feast on a low-budget, shared kid’s meal of nuggets, fries, and diet lemonade in the food court.

Now I am the mother of two small children and the mall remains our routine companion. In fact, my son even recognizes it from the road. When he sees the Northwest Bank building looming at the top of Brady and Kimberly he asks, “Mom, is that the mall?” He overlooks Toys-R-Us completely, perhaps because we never go there. But he knows the mall.

I’m not entirely proud of this recognition. Perhaps at some point I will be held responsible for my son’s consumeristic leanings; his own mallrat tendencies.

This pangs me a bit. But it’s not just about shopping.

I regularly have conversations with store owners, managers and baristas.  Yes, I’ve spent enough time at the mall that I’ve made friends. I know that Jim, owner of Cotopaxi, famous for Bob Marley posters and ten cent incense sticks, lives out of state but runs his franchise from a far. I’ve met the Pastor’s son who runs the Christian coffee shop that keeps me coming back with potent espresso and ten percent off coupons. (I even got a tour of their worship space and recording studio once.) I also enjoy running into my friends from church who are mall-walkers, frequenting North Park as much as I do.

Being a mallrat is about loitering and infrequently buying things, but I’d argue it’s also about finding community. Sometimes I go to the mall to shop. But sometimes I go just so I can be around people, nodding at the other moms navigating stores with bulky diaper bags and cumbersome strollers. And in the meantime, I’ve met a few people and now we are in each other’s narratives. Funny how that happens.

When my husband and I lived in college towns like Lawrence, Kansas and Fort Collins, Colorado, my mercantile wanderings took me to Mass Street and Old Town; hip districts containing shops, breweries, and bordered by bodies of water. I’m older now, I have children, and I live in Davenport, Iowa. I suppose we could go downtown to wander along the Mississippi River. I could do that, and infrequently, I do. But more likely than not, when I need to get out of the house, go for a little walk, buy some stickers, and eat a salty snack — I go to the mall


*Special thanks to Joyce Paustian who took this picture at North Park Mall and Woody Perkins who made it so closely resemble the movie poster for Mallrats.

I’m also thankful for my friends and family featured: Joe (my son), Louise (my mother in law), Bob (friend, church member, and faithful mall-walker), Andi (my daughter), John (my husband), Woody, Sarah and Matthew (friends and remarkably adventuresome collaborators).

Oh, and Danielle Parker, Owner and Stylist at Studio 714 salon who asked, “So you want me to style your hair for a blog?” But then did it anyway.


Kendra Thompson is a part-time minister and full-time mom living in Davenport, Iowa. In her spare time, when she's not at the mall, she blogs at Cry Laugh Snort.

Mama Bear Self Care: Tea Time, Me Time

IMG_8445.JPG

We’ve seen the mugs, t-shirts, and tote bags bearing phrases like “I run on coffee and chaos”, “but first, coffee”, and my personal favorite, “first I drink the coffee, then I do the things”. (Confession: I am drinking a cup of coffee as I write this blog post…)

As Mama Bears, many of us wake long before our spouses, our children, and the sun, not necessarily because we love early mornings but because we know the day ahead requires us to be prepared. We stumble to the kitchen, turn on the coffeemaker, and wait for that liquid gold to fill both our literal and our figurative cups. Soon we feel ready to conquer the day; from drop-offs and pick-ups to practices and lessons to homework and dinner, we know we can accomplish it all when buoyed by coffee.

Coffee has become our not-so-secret weapon in the battle for ultimate productivity, and while there is a time and a place for coffee-fueled busy, there is also a time and place to slow down.

Allow me to introduce you to the new drink in town: tea.

“If you are cold, tea will warm you. If you are heated, it will cool you. If you are depressed, it will cheer you. If you are excited, it will calm you.”

Consider William Gladstone’s words as you picture yourself drinking a cup of tea. You look relaxed, don’t you? Perhaps you’re sitting on your back porch on a sunny morning, feeling a light breeze on your face and listening to the birds chirp. Maybe you’re curled up in a comfortable chair in front of the fireplace, reading a deliciously good book. When coffee encourages us to get moving, tea encourages us to slow down. Where coffee reminds us to tackle that lengthy to-do list, tea reminds us that less is more. Tea is not just a beverage, but a ticket to living a more balanced, peaceful life.

Unbeknownst to many, after water, tea is the most widely consumed drink in the world: an astounding 3 billion cups are savored daily. And when you consider the long list of health and wellness benefits associated with tea – and that it can be enjoyed hot or cold in any season – it’s no wonder tea has gained such a massive following.

At the very least, tea offers a flavorful way to stay hydrated. Tea is simple and inexpensive to brew at home, and the options are almost endless. Some prefer orthodox tea – from luscious greens to robust blacks and the full-bodied oolongs in between – while others fancy herbal teas made by infusing herbs, spices, and other plant components in hot water. Whatever the case, almost everyone can find a cup of tea to please the taste buds.

More importantly, tea is high in antioxidants, has no calories, increases metabolism, improves skin, soothes the digestive system, calms the nervous system, and boosts the immune system. Some studies have even found a connection between drinking tea and a lower occurrence of cancer, heart disease, stroke, diabetes, and high cholesterol. Though used medicinally elsewhere in the world for thousands of years, the health benefits of tea are only recently making headlines in the United States.

As Mama Bears, we need to care for ourselves in order to care for our families. So the next time you feel stressed, overwhelmed, tired, grumpy, or even just uninspired, brew yourself a cup of the finest solution to life’s challenges. Both your mental and physical health will thank you for the treat.

Source #1 | Source #2


Mama Bear contributor Erin Ferris is a wife, mother, and writer living in College Station, Texas. She loves snow, tulips, donuts, cowboy boots, kittens, musical theater, college football, crime dramas, young adult fiction, and the color red. After working for the American Red Cross for nearly 10 years, she stepped away from the nonprofit world to focus on her favorite part of that job: telling meaningful and impactful stories. She will contribute a monthly “Mama Bear Self Care” post to the Mama Bear Dares blog, and you can find her at Chasing Roots.

Mama Bear Moment: Watching them Fail to Let them Live

DSC_0265 (3).JPG

It was late July and the summer days were numbered when we decided to venture out and try a new swimming pool. The neighborhood moms and I packed our swim bags, grabbed our towels, and sun-screened all the people for an adventure. This new pool had a high dive, which is rare anymore as it falls straight into the “too-dangerous-for-kids-these-days” category.

To participate in the high-dive fun, it was mandatory to pass a swim test.  My oldest daughter is an anxious perfectionist (her apple falls very near her mama’s tree) who rarely tastes defeat. For this reason, practicing failure was an ever present “to do” for her dad and me, but we found contriving situations for kids to fail is easier said than done. 

I knew the moment she asked if she could take the test that my answer would be an enthusiastic YES.  She is a capable swimmer, so I wasn’t throwing her to the deep end sharks, but this test exceeded her capabilities. She would get to experience that bitter mix of disappointment that comes so infrequently to kids these days. I gathered round the side of the pool with the other onlookers, a knowing smile on my face because this moment had failure written all over it.

Some might say the sense of elation I got when given the opportunity to watch my daughter fail was inappropriate. Yet, I had been diligently looking for a moment to practice failing and, when one fell in my lap, I breathed a sigh of relief. What better way to practice vulnerability? And tenacity? And resolve that failure isn’t the end, but only a step along the way.

In an era of participation trophies and everybody gets a turn fair play, our kids often miss out on experiencing failure. And we all fail at some point or another … I find myself failing nearly daily some weeks! Without failure, there would be no great successes. After all, life is about how you handle Plan B (or C or D.) It can be hard to find opportunities to practice failing, but it’s a skill that should be tried on for size in childhood. Adulthood is a series of small (and large) failures that lead to great victories and, without practice, failure can be wholly overwhelming.

She didn’t pass the swim test that sunny July day. She cried hot tears down her chlorine-soaked cheeks and we got to have a thoughtful talk about how failure felt, and, more importantly, how she would try again another time. We got to talk about what she could do differently and how, despite being upset, she really was okay. Even better than okay—she was prepared with the tools to succeed the next time around.

My Mama Bear sunned herself on the warm pavement around the pool that day. While it’s never fun to watch your child crumble in the agony of defeat, it’s a great feeling to know they are fine-tuning a life skill that will take them (slightly more) comfortably into adulthood. Mama Bears fail and rise again…frequently…and it’s a gift to be able to pass this down to our cubbies.

What might happen if we dare to fail boldly, comfortably, and completely out loud? What if we let our children fail and then showed up to be there to help them rise again. That's my dare for you: Don't let the shackles of failure weigh you down. Instead, know that each failure teaches you exactly what you needed to learn.


Mama Bear contributor Abbie Keibler is a full-time working mama to three girls born within three years. She married her preschool sweetheart and settled within five miles of both sets of their parents after years spent college-ing in other states. Abbie loves being immersed in nature, her family's tradition of pizza and a movie on Friday nights, and putting words together to make them dance off the page.

So, how are you feeling?

FullSizeRender-33.jpg

My mom is smart and sensible when it comes to health and nutrition. She and my step-dad have been lecturing me for years on the ways that the carbohydrates found in processed foods like Ritz crackers quickly turn to sugar and have been eating real food long before Whole 30. They believe in grass-fed beef, real butter, and a shot of Aloe Vera juice every morning and are in the kind of excellent health that turn observers into believers. For years, they’ve been wary of my dalliances with vegetarianism and veganism, but have respected my dietary choices, noting that I seem vibrant enough. However, whenever I fall ill with a cough, a sniffle, or an infection, my mom can’t help herself. Her advice is the same each and every time: Eat a hamburger.

This is my mom’s Mama Bear peeking out. I may be in my late thirties and my mother in her sixties, but she still grits her teeth when I call her crying with news such as the fact that my iron levels are extremely low and my doctor has uttered the words “colon cancer” as a possible cause.

That’s just the news I received last week. I’ve since had two other doctors and a physician’s assistant (how lucky I am to have such access!) look at my blood work. These are the labs results that, as I explain in Episode 91 of the Mama Bear Dares Podcast, were ordered over two years ago and have been stuffed deep in my purse ever since. I head to a specialist today* and am currently vacillating between shame in the fact that I have so egregiously neglected my own health while pouring all of my energy into the things that thrive around me (my kids, my husband, my work) and anxiety that this refusal to care for myself at a basic level might have developed into something potentially serious.

Over the last week, I’ve heard from two other friends—both moms with small children—who have told me that they, too, have noticed some abnormalities but have not taken a step toward a physician or a lab. I heard from another friend that she’s been applying figurative Band-Aids to a problem that she senses has deep origin. Have you been paying attention? Have you been keeping up with routine exams? Our health is serious business and we are the ones who must advocate for our body, paying attention to what it needs to be the strong vessel that carries all of that love and compassion through the day. You’re a Mama Bear and that means there’s gonna be some wear and tear!

So, let's speak frankly: How are you feeling? What do you need to ensure your optimal physical health? A physical? A serious observance of a nagging pain? A hamburger? Maybe. A solid step toward ensuring your health and wellness? For sure.

Leslie Klipsch is the co-host of the Mama Bear Dares Podcast and author of Mama Bear's Manifesto: A Moms' Group Guide to Changing the World. She lives with her husband and three children, ages 12, 10, and 7, in the Midwest.

*Editor's Note: Leslie has since undergone a colonosopy and endoscopy. Cancer, ulcers, and internal stomach bleeding have been ruled out. The gastrologist is currently testing for Celiac's Disease and is running a few more tests before giving her a clean bill of health. She thanks you for all the thoughts and prayers during this "weird and scary" time.

Lessons Learned From My First Months As Podcast Host

I was doing a little editing on the podcast that we will drop on Monday and I just was kind of stopped in my tracks a little bit. Tabitha, our guest, is full of wisdom and kindness and fierceness. She shares these traits with our other guests. It occurred to me that though 2016 has been a really hard year in many different ways (or maybe just a hard few final months—it’s hard to gain the perspective when it still feels like we are in it) I have learned and grown because of this podcast and the women I’ve been blessed to spend time with every week.

We’ve said it before on the podcast but it’s true, our culture tries telling us that as women we are to be in a constant state of competition with one another. That there is some destination that only allows one woman to have it all, this woman will of course reach this destination with the best style and most flawless face, hair, and nails. What a total bill of goods we are sold. Though the last handful of years have been full of examples in my own personal life about the actual truth being that when we help another woman succeed we are in turn paving the way for our own success—this podcast has proved it to be true every Monday and every Wednesday.

Leslie and I hope that by giving our guests a bigger platform we can help them succeed, whether it’s by selling more books or by garnering more donations for their non profit or whatever their pursuit. We also hope we can just make them feel successful for an hour at the very least. That we can give them the little confidence boost that comes when someone says, “You are worthy of our time.” And in turn our guests help the podcast. They tell their friends and family that they’ve recently sat down with a few women—one of whom laughs maybe a little too hard and too often (that’s me) and the other who is the epitome of style, class, and perfect English (that’s Leslie). Women helping women helping women.

For a long time I pictured the glass ceiling shattering around one woman with her fist raised, bold enough to climb the ladder and just crazy enough to believe she was worthy of constant ascension. Now I know better. Now I know that wherever a glass ceiling is shattered there too are the hundreds of women who made the moment possible. The ones who silently did more work than her male counterparts just to look competent. The ones who boldly stood up for herself against sexism and misogyny. The ones who promoted other women to higher echelons within the company or who pushed the ideas of women to the front of the business model. The moms who raised these women to believe in themselves, to stand up for themselves,and to nurture their female friendships. This podcast is a microcosm of that truth—we get where we’re going because of the millions before us and the millions still to come.

Thank you so much for joining this tribe of glass shatterers in 2016. My resolution for 2017 is to continue to bring you the stories of women who are inspiring a tide of other women to live joyfully and with great compassion, knowing that behind every great woman is a hundred more encouraging her and holding her accountable to her very best self.

Happy New Year, friends.

-Tesi