It occurred to me the other day that I haven't used the bathroom by myself for the majority of the past 16 years. This is what happens when you're the mother of five children. The cycles of infancy, toddlerhood, childhood and testing adulthood rapidly overlap. We celebrate being one being fully toilet trained while the other has just begun the messy adventure.

Homeschooling has been a lot like losing my bathroom privacy. It's messy, it includes lessons that should probably be taught with hushed tones and soft focus lighting and there is absolutely no way to escape the task at hand. Once we enter our homeschool room (previously known as the dining room), it's on. The books are out, the pencils sharpened and little ears are eager to soak up all that I have to say.  I admit, I met their expectant faces with a big ego, overconfident in my abilities to teach and impart grade-appropriate knowledge to these future members of the workforce.  There are two heavily stocked bookcases in the homeschool room standing testament to my ridiculousness. Pre-packaged curriculum, lined up in neat little rows and printables organized just so in 3" binders decorates the shelves. I have a binder to organize the "Mom" files, a binder detailing each child's curriculum, a binder for completed work, and a binder for each individual subject (should anything get lost). I had all the right books, all the right materials, all the right ideas. I went to homeschool mom mentor groups, local conferences and volunteered as a co-op teacher. And, I created a pinterest board about homeschooling! Didn't that equate a banner year, full of academic excellence and achievement?

Not even close.

As we're winding down the year, I want to remember one thing: my mistakes can contribute to their success.

- Failing at time management teaches my children in real time just how important planning, scheduling and setting an alarm (if not multiple alarms) is.
- When I don't place in a writing contest, my kids learn how to accept disappointment as something that is a natural part of life, not as a death sentence to their dreams.
- During art, my 8 year old tells me, "I'm not sure if I like the way this is coming out, but that's okay because I can just change it with more layers of paint. Just like you do! You change it a lot until it's what you wanted".
- My 10 year old says, "You don't many mistakes when I'm around you. I like big mistakes because they mean big changes. Big changes are exciting. Well, they can be exciting. Big mistakes can also be a way of helping other people because if they listen to your story, then they won't make that same mistake. Or pack a parachute the next time they jump." (I don't free jump, so I have no idea where that last bit came from!)
- My teenage daughters are in a different phase of critical thinking than their sibs. This phase requires the testing and proving of Mom's wrong-ness. I've been stuffing  I told you so's way, way down. No parent ever wants to be right about things like broken hearts, phony friends and manipulators. I wish it were as simple as pressing their foreheads against mine, to feel my life, learning the tough stuff by parental osmosis.
-I remember every bad thing that has ever happened to me. I file flunked tests and missed SAT prep questions into this category. Very handy for teaching my kids all the wonky ways I've remembered the correct information.

This first year of homeschooling has been a real doozy. It's also been rather rewarding, humbling and full of joy. My failures are treasures now.
My failures have become the easiest way to teach my children anything.

I remember researching color therapy last year, before we brought her home. I chose the lightest, least obnoxious turquoise for her bedroom walls. I bought bedding, pillows, rugs, lamps, and "accessories". Every teenager that passed me in Target that day was subject to questioning. I wanted to make sure that when we brought her home, the room sent a clear message that everything was going to be okay. 

I didn't look at the receipt at the check-out. I swiped my card and stared longingly at the Starbucks a few feet away. I smiled at everyone that passed me, their plastic red carts filled to the brim with reusable grocery bags and abnormally obedient children, slurping on Icee's. I pretended to care about what the cashier was saying. He's my favorite cashier, after all, the one who scans all my coupons correctly and tells me about his dietary habits. I really do enjoy our chats.

The day we picked up our daughter from the hospital - the mental hospital, adjacent to a drug & alcohol rehabilitation center - I was smiling. I smiled at all those parents and children and friendly, geriatric Target cashiers so no one would ask me what was wrong. I smiled because my perception of humanity is that no one really cares what you're going through. I smiled to keep the screams locked tightly behind straight teeth and bright eyes.

It's been a little over one year since that first trip to and from the hospital. She had others in the weeks to follow, each one worse than its predecessor. I felt like I was failing as a mother. Or, I was failing at Google searches. Wasn't there some natural, folk remedy online? A handy, printable pdf from webMD would have sufficed. 

There was a breaking point where I couldn't think straight, and I needed help. Keeping up the illusion that everything was "fine" was exhausting. Swallowing my pride, I reached out to new friends and neighbors. I spoke up during bible study and asked, begged, for prayers. I put our family on prayer lists. Old friends were pulled closer, and heavily leaned into.

I didn't expect the response that I received, in negative and positive ways. 

People I didn't expect to care about our family reached out and sat with us in the hospital. They visited my daughter. They contacted patient advocates. They walked me through the rough process of understanding what our new "normal" was going to look like from now on. Those people were few and far between in comparison to the dozens that shut us out. A new reality enveloped us like fog, changing my perception of ... well, everything.

We are nowhere near out of the woods. I would love to report to you that everything is fine, we haven't had any hiccups along the way and we are surrounded by angels who fart $100 bills. 

We're not fine. 
We're tired and broken and healing and sleep deprived.
We're resentful, we're cautious, we're hopeful, we're determined to get through this as a family.

This is what they don't tell you when you're signing the release papers, or shifting in your seat in the psychologist's office:
People want you to keep up appearances. They rely on you to maintain their picture of who you are. You are not allowed to break character. You are not allowed to throw up any flares. If you need help, it must be delegated to a community service organization. When you run into your people at Target - SMILE. Keep up the illusion that everything is fine.

... because then they can keep up their own illusion.

It's all bullshit, and I'm not doing it anymore.

In a house with five children, I hear "I'm sorry" a lot; often varnished with a heavy coat of sarcasm and the threat of a sibling war. Obedient to my mommy duties, I'm quick to jump in and translate between sibs what is actually going on. I get it; I can go zero to ANGRY in less than 30 seconds. In my life before kids, one angry moment would unravel an entire week for me. I want better for my kids. When it's time for mama to step in - which is right at the apex of increased octave and volume of the 8 year old's vocal abilities - I have three roles to play:

1. Interpreter - " ... what your older sister is trying to say is,'Please don't borrow my eyeshadow to play Monster High Rock Stars with your baby sister.' Also, please stop putting makeup on the baby!"
2. Reality Check - "Trust me, a misplaced Lincoln Log is the least of your worries in life. You still have puberty, your first menial job and college to look forward to."
3. Counselor - "You know your sister will pay you back the $5.00 she's asking to borrow. This is good practice for when you become adults. We're family; we help each other."

... but when it comes to forgiving myself, I'm all out of wisdom.
When it comes to my own faults and missteps, I am my own worst enemy. The words I use on myself do not build me up, speak life, or bring joy. For someone who is intent on discovering the little joys in every day living, you would think I'd be a pro at pep talk! (see, there I go again ...)

Instead, my inner monologue is more like this: