There are lots of ways to help children to learn and recognize word families, namely through rhyming games. One of my favorite games, and a favorite among both my students and my own kids, has been one that I made quickly and easily using a product that you can find just about anywhere this time of year.

The Easter Egg Word Family Game

Start by collecting some plastic Easter eggs. I used a dozen so I could keep them contained within a recycled egg carton.

On the taller side of each egg, write a word family “chunk.”

On the shorter side, write all the beginning sounds (a consonant or consonant blend, such as st or pl) that, together with the word family chunk, make words.

To play, attach the halves, lining up a beginning sound and ending chunk. Read the word with your child, emphasizing the two sounds that come together to form a single word, as in: “/m/ /op/…/mop/”

Then, twist the two halves so that a new beginning sound lines up with the ending chunk and read the new word: “/st/ /op/…/stop/”

This game is perfect for my preschooler. He knows his letter sounds and is just beginning to recognize chunks within words. This game is challenging without being frustrating for him. For my older son, who is a reader, this game is a bit too easy, so he came up with what he calls “The Challenge Round.” He mixes up two non-matching eggs and reads the resulting nonsense words, like “spump” and “thock.” Apparently it’s really funny if you’re a kindergartner.

To get you started, listed below are the 37 most common word family chunks. Pick your favorite dozen, and make your own Easter Egg Word Family Game!

–ab (cab, lab, blab, crab, flab, grab, scab, slab, stab)
–ack (back, pack, quack, rack, black, crack, shack, snack, stack, track)
–ag (bag, rag, tag, brag, flag)
–ail (fail, mail, jail, nail, pail, rail, sail, tail, snail, trail)
–ain (main, pain, rain, brain, chain, drain, grain, plain, Spain, sprain, stain, train)
–ake (bake, cake, fake, lake, make, quake, rake, take, wake, brake, flake, shake, snake)
–am (ham, Sam, clam, slam, swam)
–an (can, fan, man, pan, ran, tan, van, bran, plan, than)
–ank (bank, sank, yank, blank, crank, drank, thank)
–ap (cap, lap, map, nap, rap, tap, clap, flap, scrap, slap, snap, strap, trap, wrap)
–at (bat, cat, fat, hat, mat, rat, sat, brat, chat, flat, spat, that)
–ay (day, may, pay, say, clay, play, pray, spray, stay, tray)
–eed (feed, need, seed, weed, bleed, freed, greed, speed)
–ell (bell, fell, sell, tell, well, yell, shell, smell, spell, swell)
–est (best, guest, nest, pest, rest, test, vest, west, chest, crest)
–ew (dew, few, knew, new, blew, chew)
–ick (kick, lick, pick, quick, sick, brick, chick, click, stick, thick, trick)
–ight (knight, light, might, night, right, sight, tight, bright, flight, fright, slight)
–ill (fill, hill, pill, will, chill, drill, grill, skill, spill, thrill)
–in (bin, fin, pin, sin, win, chin, grin, shin, skin, spin, thin, twin)
–ine (fine, line, mine, nine, pine, vine, wine, shine, spine, whine)
–ing (king, ring, sing, wing, bring, cling, spring, sting, string, swing, thing)
–ink (link, pink, sink, wink, blink, drink, shrink, stink, think)
–ip (dip, hip, lip, rip, sip, tip, chip, clip, drip, flip, grip, ship, skip, strip, trip, whip)
–ob (knob, mob, rob, blob, slob, snob)
–ock (knock, lock, dock, rock, sock, block, clock, frock, shock, stock)
–op (cop, hop, mop, pop, top, chop, crop, drop, flop, plop, shop, stop)
–ore (bore, more, sore, tore, wore, chore, score, shore, snore, store)
–ot (got, dot, hot, knot, lot, not, plot, shot, spot)
–out (grout, scout, shout, spout, sprout)
–ow (cow, how, now, brow, chow, plow)
–uck (buck, duck, luck, cluck, stuck, truck)
–um (gum, hum, drum, plum, slum)
–unk (junk, chunk, drunk, shrunk, stunk, trunk)
–y (by, my, cry, dry, fly, fry, shy, sky, spy, try, why)

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1. EGG CARTON FLOWERS from our Playroom ideas – easy to make egg carton flowers that even toddlers can create – if you are working with toddlers and don’t want the flowers to be “preschool brown” then a top tip is to provide a colour and then swap it out to colour different flowers.
2. DAFFODIL PIN WHEELS from Nurturestore- capture the joy of those first flowers of Spring and create these beautiful pin wheels with the kids – want a mess free variety then use coloured paper and find a yellow egg carton to use.
3. PAPER PLATE ROSE from Danya Banya- these would make such a wonderful bouquet of Spring Flowers made by the kids to add to the Nature Table or on a windowsill at home and the bonus is you never need to add water and they will last all Spring long.
4. YARN WRAPPED TULIPS from School Time Snippets – once the yellow of daffodils die down, the garden explodes into a rainbow of colours as the tulips bloom. With all of the colours of yarn plus the mixed colours yarns, this easy craft for kids can mimic your garden flowers.
5. TISSUE PAPER LOLLIPOP FLOWERS from Red Ted Art – cute and delicious to these easy-to-make tissue paper flowers have a hidden secret in the centre, a little lollipop. Wouldn’t they just make the cutest party favours for a Spring tea party?
6. PLASTIC SPOON FELT FLOWERS from Crafts by Amanda – use up some of those left over plastic spoons from the party season and create some pretty flower pictures. Full instructions by clicking on the link.
7. HAND AND FOOTPRINT FLOWER CANVAS ART from Arts and Crackers – create some lasting art that holds memories for your kids with these hand and footprint flower canvas art pictures.
8. STAMPED AND BUTTON FLOWER from Happy Hooligans – ever so simple, these printed flowers make a wonderful addition to a card and are ideal for toddlers and preschoolers to use – look at how we used the technique to create a pretty tote over on Rainy Day Mum.
9. TEXTURED TISSUE PAPER FLOWERS from Buggy and Buddy – work on those fine motor skills and get the kids creating some textured tissue paper art, another simple craft that the youngest and oldest children can do at that the same time.
10. WATERCOLOUR COFFEE FILTER FLOWERS from Hands on as We Grow – mix up process art and craft to create these pretty water colour coffee filter flowers that even the youngest children can create.

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Having a well-balanced life is the key to happiness and fulfillment. This can be hard to find with all life can throw at you. So to help, here are the 7 dimensions to seek to keep a healthy balance, and how gardening helps:

1. Physical Wellness

Gardening provides a good amount of exercise while distracting you from the fact that you are actually getting a workout. Eating more nutritious, fresh food is better for our bodies; and if you grow organically you are keeping toxins out of your system as well.

2. Intellectual Wellness

Being open to new ideas and challenges, learning something different, and keeping your mind active all are part of wellness. Whether you are trying out an unusual plant, learning about a different way to grow, or just doing a search online to solve your pest issue, you are improving in this area. When you can share that learning with kids, you are improving their intellectual wellness too.

3. Environmental Wellness

This is where gardening really shines. By keeping man-made pesticides and herbicides out of your garden, by replacing grass with food, and by planting beneficial plants for bees and other insects, gardeners have a very direct mark on the environment. Did you know that a dandelion is one of the first flowers available as food for bees in the spring? Gardeners who are aware don’t douse it with Round-Up, and thereby they have a positive impact on the planet.

4. Occupational Wellness

Chances are you do not garden for a living, but rather as a hobby. Still, finding balance by having gardening as a part of your routine contributes to your overall well-being. You can add to this by bringing plants to work, or volunteering at a local community garden. Getting paid isn’t the point, happiness is.

5. Social Wellness

We have never met a gardener who wasn’t more than willing to freely share what they know, and often what they grow, with others. Social media has connected us in a way like never before. Still, face to face is more personal and gardeners would do well to seek out those experiences. Something as simple as attending a master gardener workshop or a flower show can contribute to multiple dimensions of wellness.

6. Spiritual Wellness

The indigenous peoples of this country believed in the power of being in touch with the earth spiritually. Many cultures have meditative areas in their gardens to become more in tune with nature. Is there any other connection like being one with the source of life itself?

7. Emotional Wellness

Having your hands in the soil produces chemicals in the brain that bring about a feeling of happiness. Individuals with varied mental illnesses, including severe depression, have been found to show significant improvement through gardening. Ask a gardener what makes them happy, and ‘playing in the dirt’ is most likely the response.

Striving for a balance in all these areas is what leads to a happier, more fulfilled life. Gardening is a great way to make that happen. Plus, you get produce!

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My Precious Children,

Tonight, I succumbed to peer pressure (exactly what I caution you NEVER to do) and went with a bunch of girlfriends to see Fifty Shades of Grey. I ignored the little voice in my head that implored me to just say “no!” because, after all, it’s just a silly movie, right? Well, I wish I had done as I always tell you to do and given that voice credit because it was right. The thing is, I’m also kind of glad I didn’t because now I have these words for you.

One day, in the not very distant future, I’m going to blink and gasp as I realise you’re suddenly old enough to see movies like Fifty Shades of Grey, yourselves. Of course, you or your friends may even decide that curiosity wins and risk sneaking a peek even earlier than that. Either way, I have to accept the hard fact that your innocent eyes and your uncorrupted minds are going to see this drivel sooner or later.

I am writing this so that when that day comes, you’ll recognise Fifty Shades of Grey for what it is, rather than what it pretends to be.

Let me begin by telling you what Fifty Shades of Grey is not.

It is not a love story.

It does a pretty convincing job of masquerading as one, for sure, but please believe me when I say that love doesn’t even have a cameo role in this plot.

It is also not a romantic fairy tale with a harmless bit of naughtiness sprinkled on top.

Romance is glaringly absent, in fact. As for harmless S&M, please understand that this screenplay’s message is the polar opposite of harmless. In this ‘harmless’ piece of fluff movie, a rich, handsome, experienced man uses his power to seduce and manipulate a young, innocent student into doing a lot of things she is extremely uncomfortable doing.

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They are not equals. They are not partners. There is, in fact, no ‘they’ to speak of at all.

In 50 Shades of Grey, they are not equals. They are not partners. There is, in fact, no ‘they’ to speak of at all.
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Rather, it’s a movie about a narcissistic man’s controlling and violent sexual desires and his sense of entitlement to use and abuse a vulnerable young woman’s body and mind as tools for his own gratification. It’s all about his needs, coupled with the arrogant expectation that she should comply, regardless of her discomfort, to please him.

I sat in the theatre and looked around me at hundreds of women, buying into this so-called ‘sexy love story’ and I felt sick. If an entire theatre of women three times your age couldn’t see how damaging this plot line is, how on earth are teenage girls and boys supposed to?

Please, my daughters, don’t allow this romanticizing of sexual domestic abuse fool you into believing that you should ever allow yourself to be treated like Anastasia Steele. Please, my son, don’t watch this one day and believe that it’s ever okay to intimidate, manipulate or disrespect a woman like the ‘hero,’ Christian Grey. Nobody, male or female, wants or deserves to be disrespected, manipulated or violated against his or her wishes.

I hope, when the day comes that you’re grown up enough to be in a relationship, that you’ll understand that what goes on behind bedroom doors should always be pleasurable for both of you, regardless of your tastes. I hope you’ll understand that consent given under duress isn’t consent at all. I hope you’ll demand respect and that you’ll give respect in return.

Tonight, I walked out of the cinema feeling terrified and a little sad for your generation. If this is the movie that you base your ideals of love and romance on, then I need to make some things very clear and I hope you’re listening.

If someone wants to be with you, turning up at your part-time job unannounced when you haven’t ever even discussed that you have one and acting possessive when a co-worker talks to you is not romantic. It’s creepy.

If you say you’re a virgin and he responds by violently deflowering you, that’s not love. That’s assault.

If he tracks your whereabouts when you’re out clubbing and takes you to his hotel when you’re too drunk to make a rational decision, then undresses you and puts you in his bed for the night, that’s not protective. It’s stalking. In fact, stalking is the least of what it is.

If he turns up inside your apartment uninvited, it’s not romantic. It’s breaking and entering.

If you tell him you’re not interested and you ask him to leave and he responds by tying you to your bed and having violent sex with you after you repeatedly say “no,” all the while threatening to do worse if you make a noise, it’s not passion. It’s rape.

If he sells your car and buys you a new one without your permission “to surprise you,” it’s not romantic. It’s theft and manipulation.

If he monitors your phone calls and threatens you with physical harm because another man calls you, he’s not in love with you. He’s abusing and controlling you.

If beating you with a leather strap until you cry is what gives him pleasure and he asks you to do it despite your distress because it turns him on and then plays the victim to explain it all away, there is no soundtrack in the world that should quiet the voice in your head that yells out that love and romance were never in the picture and they never will be.

My children, this film was deeply disturbing to me, and I have life experience on my side. I shudder to think that you are going to grow up with stories like this to model relationships on and that you or the people you date will mistake this for ‘normal.’

Please, my precious children, know this: Love is gentle. Love never takes. Love does not demand. Love waits for consent. Love doesn’t need helicopter rides and expensive gifts. Love is enough.

When there’s love, the voice in your head doesn’t yell. It simply doesn’t have to.

My children, listen to me on this, if nothing else.

And, if you choose not to listen to me, then listen to the voice in your head.

With abundant love,

Mum

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• The Best Love Letter I’ve Ever Received
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Four years ago, if you had told me an attitude of gratitude could change my life, I would have laughed in your face. In fact, I am pretty sure I snorted some coffee while I read such advice on a postpartum depression (PPD) self help page online. How could I keep a Gratitude Journal, a daily record of three things I’m grateful for, when I hated my life and couldn’t stop thinking of ways to end it? The whole concept seemed a challenging, pointless waste of time, yet I knew I had to do something to get out of the dark pit of despair I had fallen into.

I wanted to live, I wanted to laugh again, and felt I was failing as a mother and wife, so after trying different modalities of depression treatment (acupuncture, Chinese herbs, light therapy, antidepressants) to no avail, I decided to give the old Gratitude Journal a try. “What a joke!” I thought to myself on my ill-fated first attempt. I sat there staring at the page for 20 minutes with no clue what to write. I couldn’t think of single thing I was thankful for other than my family and reckoned that was too cheesy to put down on paper.

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If you have never been depressed, you have no idea how hard it is to think positively. It took about a week before I could churn out three things I was thankful for without grimacing or having to concentrate. With a bedtime deadline for my journal, I had all day to think about what to write; perhaps the smell of apple blossoms, Baby cruising and giggling… Unknowingly, while doing homework in my mind, I was cultivating an attitude of gratitude.

As I became less negative, my friends started coming around again, I made more of an effort to get out and exercise, and found even more reasons to be thankful. My journal entries became longer, more descriptive, and just plain happier. One of my favorite reads: “I am thankful for irises and lilies blooming, gloriously warm and perfect for playing outside weather, and my clever kids’ cute made-up songs.” The Gratitude Journal was not the cure to PPD, but a step in the right direction, a step away from the ledge.

Since that time, I have not written in my Gratitude Journal consistently, but I do the exercise in my head daily and keep the journal on my nightstand. If I am ever feeling down, I take comfort in reading past entries; they remind me of what fills my bucket. Today, I am grateful that I did something productive even though I thought it was silly, that most of my friends stood by me when I was hard to be around, and most of all, for my husband and children’s unconditional love.

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As women, we’re savvy, smart, creative, and sexy. We’re moms, wives, daughters, friends, employees, bosses and entrepreneurs. We are awesome, and we get it all done. We pull on our big girl panties and try and make it all look effortless.   Too often, however, we go right into the next items on the never ending to-do list, without taking time to recharge. This is our biggest mistake.

How do we overlook something as instrumental as self-care? Why do we do it? Crazy expectations? Feeling as if we must keep up with the Jones’? To prove our worth to someone we think matters?

Be reminded, that unless we take care of ourselves by honoring our mind, body and spirit temple, we aren’t replenishing and restoring all that we give away. Love and service to others are admirable; losing yourself in the process, not so much. When we’re in the midst of confusion time moves more slowly. It captures our motions on mental film for us to play back in our heads, over and over.

When in limbo, not everyone receives a “ride or die” crew to lend emotional support. I am thankful to have sister-friends who get me and have elected to encourage and support, while I found my way back after losing my mother. Not everyone stayed; my grief process was considerable. My mother was gone.

I understand that I had not been “myself” for some time. The friends that stayed I treasure even more. I still have love for those that fell off. Maybe we’ll connect again at some point.

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All things come to pass. We don’t have control over the time or order of things, but we can keep the faith. It is okay to deal with emotions and situations that overtax. Four years almost to the day she left this planet, my light flickered back on. The breakthrough: writing an essay honoring her legacy. I exhaled, and the last bit of “I can’t” left my spirit.

It was proceeded by a rumbling in my belly and an upchuck of my lunch. Next came the tears. Finally. I hadn’t cried in almost a year. My body and spirit needed both purges. There is something profoundly sad about not being able to release. As warm tears flowed down my face, I gave thanks to the Creator for bringing me through the storm.

With the light, came promises to myself. I will take better care of myself. For one, I’m worth it. I reconvened an earlier practice of taking a monthly Imani Appreciation Day. I do something I enjoy. It may be a stroll through an arts festival, dancing to Soulfully Deep House music, a walk on the beach, or hitting a poetry spot. I plan something relaxing that forces me outside. It is far too easy for me to curl up with a book and tune the world out. The point of an Appreciation Day is to, “do you.” No excuses.

Recharging means learning to tell people “no” and being okay with it. It also means that instead of putting all of our energy into others, we keep some for ourselves. Guilt over not being everything for everyone, all the time, is stressful in itself. It isn’t realistic. I’d rather you be mad at me as opposed to me being mad at myself.

I’m much harder on myself.

Look Sis, I’m speaking to you from the heart. Your spirit and light give loving energy. Honor that. Recharge freely and often. It’s paramount to your staying mystique and power. Don’t make me show up in your city with a Meet-Up intervention! Get your life!

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Thank you for taking me on hikes in the forest, and for stopping at the lookouts along the trail even when I said that I wanted to keep moving. I secretly craved stillness. Because of you, I had time to notice the blue water, the height of the cliffs, the burnt-sunshine smell of wildflowers.

Thank you for treating me like I had an adult soul even when I was still being asked in restaurants to use booster seats. And for respecting my decision to decline all offers of booster seats.

Thank you for staying overnight as one of the chaperones during the Brownie’s camping trip. Thank you, also, for never telling anyone that you only did it because I would have been homesick without you.

Thank you for letting me into every room of the house even when I was a child and the carpets were white, and for allowing me to use the same nice dishes as our guests. For understanding the accidental shatter of a plate.

Thank you for teaching me it’s good to put butter on popcorn.

Thank you for helping me to make my Helen Keller costume, and my Georgia Peach costume, and for my Cinderella costume with the pink ribbon to wear in my hair.

Thank you for waiting in line overnight, sitting on an uncomfortable chair in the parking lot of Toys “R” Us, to get me a Furby for Christmas because you knew I wanted one of those toys more than I’d wanted anything. You sat with strangers in the cold just to make sure you snagged one before the store sold out.

Thank you for telling me the stuff you’ve done that’s colourful and offbeat, so I know I can share my own secrets with you. Sometimes I tell you and no one else because you’re the only listener I need.

Thank you for letting me know that it’s okay to be the only one who stays home and reads a book, and it’s okay to be the only one who goes a little wild and jumps too high in the dark on the trampoline.

Thank you for saying that you admire me.

Thank you for teaching me about edible flowers by plucking two from the grass for each of us to nibble. And for buckets full of blackberries we picked on the roadside, dreamy afternoons spent feeling simultaneously at home and free.

Thank you for passing on the love of power outages, blizzards, and thunderstorms. I’m most awake when nature touches the glass of my windows. I think I’m lucky to not feel afraid.

Thank you for believing that advertisements are not always right, and smiles don’t always mean happiness.

Thank you for turning on your music in the car. I still remember the some of the graceful, melancholy songs that played when you drove me to daycare, and how they made me discover a new depth to my emotions.

Thank you for lying to always tell me I was prettier, smarter, and nicer–and for being honest about most everything else.

Thank you for ignoring the advice you didn’t believe in, and for quietly knowing better.

Thank you for never telling me to quit a goal that makes me happy.

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I’m sure my husband thought here we go again every time I came home from a girls’ night out in tears. It only meant one thing. Another one of my girlfriends had announced that she was pregnant. My husband and I had been trying for years with two heartbreaking miscarriages and month after month of disappointment.

I had always put on a happy face in front of my friends. I told them it would happen when the time was right. But inside I was dying.

As my friends’ bellies grew, my jealousy and frustration rose. To my husband, I sounded like a broken record. “Why can’t we have a baby?” I would ask over and over. From the time I was a little girl all I ever wanted was to one day become a mommy. And it felt like it was happening to everyone but me.

Let’s face it, trying to conceive was no longer fun—it was like a second job. And I felt like a failure at it. I needed to do something that I knew I could succeed at. So I decided to become finally a yoga instructor. For years I placed my desire to become a teacher on hold thinking, I would soon be pregnant.

Before I had the chance to think twice about it, I reached out to my very first yoga instructor and booked the teacher training. While my friends were buying pack n’ plays and cute baby clothes, I threw myself into my practice. I got on a plane and traveled over 3,000 miles to a yoga oasis. It was a life changing journey.

When I arrived, the only two people I knew were the instructors. For one week I lived in a cabana on the beach without modern day plumbing, did not wear shoes, consumed a vegan diet, produced more sweat than I thought was humanly possible, and trained with the most amazing group of people. The week was truly transformative.

I came back to the states a more calm and relaxed person ready for more training. So I signed up for one closer to home. During the 8-month training, I was able to let go of all of the emotions that had been weighing me down. Tears rolled down my face as I practiced. I felt comfortable enough around my fellow trainees not to hold back the pain that rose to the surface. Those darn restorative poses were the worst!

Throughout the training, my husband and I were still trying to conceive. We had even gone to a fertility clinic and planned to start treatments as soon as the training wrapped up. One month after the training ended I received a call from the doctor who told me I was pregnant. Of course, I thought there had to be a mistake. We hadn’t started treatment yet. Nine months later I delivered a beautiful baby boy.

After everything we had been through the first time, we assumed it would take a while to get pregnant with baby number two. To our surprise, it happened right away. We feel completely blessed to have two wonderful, healthy little boys.

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Every Friday morning before the kids leave for the bus stop we crank up the music and have a dance party in the kitchen. The little kids are all arms and legs flailing to the beat. One of them is really good at the doing the Worm across the floor. The older kids have become a little more reluctant and guarded, but I see them quietly shake a shoulder or nod their head to the music.

After the kids leave for school, the dance party doesn’t stop. Actually, my dance party never really stops ever. I like to introduce myself as a freelance writer/stay-at-home mother/dance floor starter. Sometimes the dance floor is a friend’s wedding or charity event, sometimes it’s my kitchen.

I’ve always loved to dance. My idols growing up were the Solid Gold dancers. I dreamed of going to the school on the TV show Fame so Debbie Allen could be my tough, but loving dance teacher. I performed my own choreographed dances (to Flashdance, duh!) in my elementary school talent show and was always in the center of the circle at the after-school dances in junior high.

There wasn’t a beat that I didn’t love or a move I wouldn’t try. I not only loved the feeling of dancing, but I also loved how it made people smile or laugh or dance with me.

Once I became a mother, I danced when nothing else worked. When the kids were babies there were so many moments of feeling sort of overwhelmed and uncertain about a lot of life. They needed me all the time. Holding, feeding, changing, entertaining and rocking and making it all better. It was exhausting and sometimes no matter what I did, the babies would cry. In those overwhelmed, exhausted, nothing is working moments, I would start dancing. I cranked up the music in my kitchen and danced. Sometimes the babies would stop crying and laugh or bounce along in their high chairs. Sometimes they wouldn’t. But I always felt better, more relaxed.

Years later when I started posting my kitchen dances on social media, I felt like I was back in the circle at the junior high dances. People left comments saying they were dancing in their kitchens too and that the dances “made them smile” and it “made their day.”

Dancing is about relaxing and letting go and moving and being free. Dancing is about joy and self-expression and not over-thinking. Dancing is a way to do all of that, and maybe help make people smile and want to dance along or at least shake a shoulder or nod their head to the music.

There are so many reasons to feel bad and worried and upset. Life is complicated, parenthood can be overwhelming and personhood can be sad. Dancing won’t fix any problems, but it helps you escape them for a song or two.

Dancing is my reset button, my bucket-filler, my balancer, my escape, my reminder of how something as simple as moving to a good beat in my kitchen can make me feel so much better.

Dancing is my reset button, my bucket-filler, my balancer, my escape.
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TAKE A PEEK!:

Life is kind of intense right now and being a pretty sensitive person, I’m feeling all the feelings…and anxieties and frustrations and total lack of control. But being sensitive and feeling all the bad shit makes all the good that much better. And the dancing, that always feels good. #kitchendance #dancingisalwaysagoodideaw

A video posted by Angela Youngblood (@jumpingwithmyfingerscrossed) on Mar 22, 2015 at 5:33pm PDT

…and a little from her YouTube Channel — this one will REALLY get you movin’

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The post Start Dancing in Your Kitchen first appeared on BonBon Break.

Raise your hand if your mom has ever driven you batty.

Welp, that looks like all of you. Just as I figured—I’m in good company!

My mom and I are so different, I marvel at how half of my DNA is hers. In order to retain my sanity, I moved away when I was eighteen, and kept on moving. Now I’m just under a four-hour drive from her, and it works for us.

The distance helps me appreciate her more. She’s the one who nurtured my love of reading and writing. She’s the one to blame my sweet tooth on, who introduced me to real Vermont maple syrup, and proved that homemade desserts are the very best kind. She instilled manners and modesty in someone who now knows how to balance a tendency to be mouthy with the right amount of respect for others.

When I get the call that she needs me, I drop everything and run.

Each time I go, I promise myself I’ll bite my tongue this time, but it’s hard for us to cohabitate. After a few days we begin to clash. And by that I mean we’re both violently rolling our eyes behind each other’s back, and our passive aggressiveness could drown the elephant in the room. I leave happy to have seen her, but frustrated by our friction. During the long drive home—one I often do alone—I dwell on it. Why don’t we have more common ground? Will this visit’s tiny fissures end up breaking into a gulf?

As soon I get home, my life swallows me whole, and I get distracted from my worries. I hope for the best, and start washing the dishes no one touched while I was away.

Then I get the mail.

Every month, like clockwork, my mom sends me a card with coupons for Miralax and FiberOne cereal, “just in case,” with a note about little nothings in her scribbly handwriting with lollipop-like Ps.

Now, I love me some cereal and good poops, but I haven’t needed coupons for either of these things since I healed from anal surgery five years ago. But like any mom’s insistence we remember some distant relative despite the fact that we have not seen that person since we were learning to walk, or needing to discuss the price of gas and milk for a minimum of forty-five minutes each time we see them, there is no stopping this train.

Not that I want it to stop.

Each time I get these cards, I feel like it’s Christmas for my butt again. Someone important out there is thinking of it, and wants it to be happy, so sends a thoughtful gift (or two) its way. How could I turn that away?

My mom and I might part slightly strained by our differences, but these coupons tell me like clockwork that I am always on her mind, in her heart, and she will never stop wanting to take care of me. Because of this, I can’t bear to actually use them—I stuff them in the kitchen drawer and my desk. They end up scattered around my house.  I love finding them all over the place.

These crumpled rectangular reminders that my mom thinks of me fill me up with confidence that we will always find our way back to each other, and allow me to think of the happier connections we have rather than our differences. It may seem a little strange to some, but strange works for both of us. I mean, I am her daughter, after all.

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One of the most surprising aspects of motherhood has been how much my daughter drains me.

There are some mornings that leave me completely spent before 9 am.  When I ask her what she wants for breakfast, she changes her mind three times and eats nothing that I serve her.  “Put your coat on,” I instruct her before we venture out in the cold.  In response, she strips down to her diaper and runs around the house.  She tests me daily and I know I am in for a struggle as soon as she gets that mischievous glint in her eyes.

I find motherhood to be a constant giving of myself to my daughter.  When she was a newborn I gave up sleep and fed her from my body.  In the first few months, I adjusted my schedule to hers, getting up each morning at 5am until she outgrew the early wakeup times.  She is a toddler now, with a strong personality and a loud voice.  There are temper tantrums over cheese and times when she hurls toys across the room in frustration.  Getting through my days requires a lot of patience.

It’s not just the day-to-day tasks that drain me: the diapers and cooking and wiping and cleaning.  It’s so much more than that; I breathe my daughter.  Our bond is a deep one that ingrains itself on everything in my life.

When she is sad, it pains me.  I feel my heart beating loudly in my chest when she enters a new classroom, her nervous, sweaty hand holding onto mine.  During the moments when she is frustrated, I find myself empathizing with her.  She sits on my lap and I whisper into my ear that I am sorry that I don’t always understand her.  These moments wear on me emotionally.

Thankfully, there is the flip side.  Although my daughter exhausts me, she fills me up to the brim with the brightest joy and deepest pride.  Her happy moments bubble over into my body and I feel myself smiling. My heart lifts whenever I hear the pitter patter of her little feet running around the house.  “Mommy,” her little voice calls out and that one simple word fills up my heart.

Every day, I breathe in her baby scent, her infectious laughter and the trail of crumbs she leaves behind.  I breathe in her funny toddler language and the crazy outfits she picks out. I breathe out my fierce devotion.  I breathe in all that I love about her precious heart and breathe out all that I can give of my own.  In and out.  In and out.  This is how I get through the hard days.

On a recent excursion out for brunch, my daughter did what many toddlers do in restaurants: stood up in her high chair, spilled the salt and ripped open a sugar packet.  I could feel the waitress eyeing us and the annoyed looks from the other patrons.  I did the best I could to keep her entertained, but she had her own agenda.  That familiar feeling of exhaustion took over and I knew I would have to eat my meal quickly so we could leave.

Upon receiving her Mickey Mouse pancake a few minutes later, my daughter smiled.  She ripped off a piece of pancake and hugged it.  “I hug Mickey,” she excitedly exclaimed.  Then she gave it a kiss before she popped it into her mouth.  My heart melted.

She did this for each bite of the pancake, making sure to hug and kiss each piece.  “Mmmm, good,” she said once she had cleaned the plate.

I took a deep breath, wanting to inhale this moment and commit it to memory.  I felt as if I would overflow from her sweetness.

My daughter drains me and then fills me back up again. On the hard days, I play music and we dance around the living room.  Sometimes we drive to the harbor nearby and she excitedly looks at the boats, describing them to me.  I take her sledding when it snows and she puts out her fingers to catch the snowflakes while giggling.  When I hold her tiny hand in mine, I feel complete and whole.

To get through the tough days, I just need to remember to breathe, because there is no one who can fill me to the brim like my beautiful child.

Breathe in; breathe out.

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The post Breathing to Find Balance in Motherhood first appeared on BonBon Break.

To my eldest boy,

It was 4:30 in the morning as I peeked into your dark room.  I watched the rise and fall of your tiny belly from the doorway and tried to swallow the lump in my throat.  I wanted to snatch you from your crib, to hold you close and run off together, just us two.  Perhaps your dad could join as well.

But the baby in my belly was coming, and you were sleeping so peacefully.  So I leaned against your door frame for just one more moment, soaking you in.  Thinking this thought, and attempting to smother it at the same time.

How could I love any other child as much as I love you?

Two hours later the sun peeked over the horizon at the same time your brother was born.  And I knew right then.

I knew what it was to have a full heart.  And then to watch it grow and fill immediately, once more.

How could I have known?  When I fretted over you at night, my big belly rising from under our sheets?  How could I have guessed that I wouldn’t have to empty any of my love for you to make room for him?  Did I not realize that the bucket could grow?  That it would fill to the top and then to overflowing?

Three years later we prepared to welcome another baby.  I wasn’t so scared this time, as I’ve learned that my love for you, and your brother now, can only grow, and that nothing could ever lessen it.

Your dad couldn’t attend the gender-determining ultrasound, so I asked the doctor to write it down.  To seal it in an envelope so we could open it together.  As a family.

Later that day, in your dad’s quiet classroom, I held my breath as he tore through the thick paper.  We read it first, and then looked at you.  At your brother.

“It’s a boy,” I said.  Or your dad.  I can’t remember.

But what we thought was, Really, another boy?  We already have two of those to love.

I smiled and played my part, helped you with your coats, and headed to the car.  But as we walked down the school’s dark hallways I was thinking this thought, and attempting to smother it at the same time.

How could I love any other boy as much as I love these two boys?  What’s going to make this one special?

Five months later you walked into my hospital room, threw your coat on the floor and climbed hurriedly onto the bed, peering with that big, goofy grin of yours into your baby brother’s bassinet.

And I knew already that he was really something.  That you saw it too.  And when your little brother eventually warmed up, that he saw it as well.

How could I have known?  That as the bucket grew and the love kept pouring, as expected, that adoration would show up as well?  That the three of you would never, ever blend together?  That regardless of boy or girl you would each carry around a spark, and one that is entirely you?

And that, even on the days when you and your brothers completely drain me, the love I feel for you will never, not now, not in a million years, stop overflowing.

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The post Making Room In My Heart For Another Baby first appeared on BonBon Break.