There’s no question in my mind that mindfulness can make us all better parents, both by helping us to stay tuned in to our own thoughts and feelings so they don’t unconsciously dictate our actions AND by giving us the skills and tools to truly connect with our children so we can best respond to their thoughts and emotions with kindness. I have found that my own meditation and informal mindfulness practices have made a noticeable improvement in my ability to stay calm and choose how I want to respond to my girls, rather than reacting to them out of frustration or anger. I’m definitely not perfect, but it’s getting better.

To be honest, though, I had always thought that mindfulness was going to require more effort in my parenting. I worried that all of that awareness, all of that figuring out what is going on inside my crazy mind (as well as my daughters’ minds!) was going to be an awful lot of work. I decided to do it anyway, because the way I saw it, parenting is hard work no matter how you do it, so you might as well try to get it right, right?

Turns out I was wrong. I just read two studies by Karen Bluth and Robert Wahler at The University of Tennessee looking at the relationship between mindfulness and parental effort. They asked mothers of both adolescents and pre-schoolers to fill out scales measuring how generally mindful they are and also how much effort they expend in parenting. Not surprisingly, they found that “the mothers with high mindfulness scores reported less parenting effort and lower problems with their youth than did mothers with low mindfulness scores” (2011a, p. 177).

Basically what they’re saying is that mindful parenting actually takes less work than mindless parenting, which is how most of us (including me) move through most of our interactions with our children. The authors speculate about a couple of reasons why this might be true: Perhaps as we become better at being aware of and attentive to our children’s thoughts and feelings, it becomes easier to understand what they need and know how to respond. Just this morning my older daughter was having a really hard time. I was getting increasingly frustrated with her tantrums, and as I noticed myself getting all worked up, I decided to STOP. I took a few deep breaths, and tried to really observe what was going on with our family. I realized that my big girl was responding to a big change in our family—her little sister had decided she wanted to wear underwear for the first time today.

Instead of getting increasingly annoyed with my daughter, I sat down with her, and we talked about what was going on. She was able to tell me that she’s worried about not getting enough attention because her sister is getting so much attention during the potty training process. And I was able to talk to her about those feelings, and make a plan for how we can make sure she’s getting enough attention

Needless to say, the rest of the morning went a lot easier than if I had just continued reacting to each tantrum.

Bluth and Wahler offer another explanation for why mindfulness might make parenting seem a bit easier: “It is possible that mothers who are more mindful are also not as bothered or concerned about their child’s behavior, particularly in relation to how it may be perceived by others, possibly because they see the child’s ‘acting out’ as part of her developmental process and not as a reflection of their mothering” (2011b, p. 284).

This also made a lot of sense to me. I know that when my girls are melting down in the middle of a store, for example, I get totally wrapped up in it—I become obsessed with getting them to calm down quickly, and I worry about how my parenting will be seen (and judged!) but those around me. Yet I definitely stay much calmer when I’m with someone else’s kids who are freaking out, and I do think it’s because I don’t feel responsible for their behavior, while I absolutely do feel like my kids’ tantrums are a reflection of my own parenting flaws.

What if we could understand our children’s behaviors the way mindfulness teaches us to understand our own thoughts? They aren’t a reflection of who we are, and they don’t define us. We aren’t in control of them, and all we can do is notice them, take a deep breath, and respond as best we know how—knowing full well that they, too, will pass. That sounds like a lot less effort than getting all entangled in and worked up about any of it.

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Bluth, K., & Wahler, R. G. (2011a). Does Effort Matter in Mindful Parenting? Mindfulness, 2(3), 175–178. doi:10.1007/s12671-   011-0056-3

Bluth, K., & Wahler, R. G. (2011b). Parenting Preschoolers: Can Mindfulness Help? Mindfulness, 2(4), 282–285. doi:10.1007/s12671-011-0071-4

I am currently re-reading Everyday Blessings: The Inner Work of Mindful Parenting by Myla and Jon Kabat-Zinn. It’s a long book, but well worth the time. I came across this quote and wanted to share it:

“In the Zen tradition of meditation, people are fond of saying that the practice is nothing special. The practice is nothing special in the same way that being a mother or giving birth is nothing special, that being a father is nothing special, that being a farmer and bringing things forth from the land is nothing special, even that being alive is nothing special. That is all true in a way, but try telling that to a mother or a father or a farmer. ‘Nothing special’ also means ‘very special’. The utterly ordinary is utterly extraordinary. It all depends on how you see things, and whether you are willing to look deeply, and live by what you see and feel and know.”

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“Wow. I’m never going to get this right.”

Those words passed through my mind last night as I sat on the floor trying to focus on my breathing. I was in a conference room with nine other people, nine other parents who had also signed up to take a mindful parenting class at the Center for Mindfulness at the University of Massachusetts, Worcester.

As I heard my classmates talk about their struggles with raising their children—most of whom are much older than my own—it hit me. Hard. Parenting doesn’t get easier, and I’m never going to get it right.

Those seven words reveal a tremendous amount about how I have come to understand my role as a parent, for better and for worse (but in this case, mostly worse). On the harder days, the days when the girls and I seem to be taking turns throwing tantrums, when I am exhausted and can’t seem to get anything right and they can’t seem to do anything right, I beat myself up. I’m a bad parent. I’m too harsh on them. I should be nicer to them. Everyone else is a better mother than I am.

And then, of course, there is the underlying notion that parenthood is something we should “get right.” Even as I write those words, I realize how ridiculous they are (my grandmother would most certainly laugh at them), yet they have somehow found a place in my brain, the brain that was grown and developed in the professional world. Through decades of schooling and jobs, I was taught that if I study hard and work hard, I would master whatever challenge I face. I will graduate to the next grade, finish school, get a job, get a promotion.

It’s so tempting to think that at some point I might “master” parenting, that there might come a day when I know exactly how to respond to every tantrum, exactly how to serve vegetables so my daughters will eat them, whether or not to keep them in swim lessons when they don’t want to go. I’ll get that gold star on my performance review and get promoted to the next job, whatever that may be.

It’s baloney, as my own mother would say.

Parenting isn’t about getting it right, even if that were possible. What I know is that our children need us to fail them. As long as we aren’t truly abusive or neglectful, our failures teach our children that their actions have an impact on other people, that their needs won’t always be met, that they can feel sad and angry at the people who they love the most, and they will still be ok. Every time I snap at my girls and then bring them close to apologize, I am teaching them that I am fallible and they can be fallible too. I am teaching them that it’s ok to say you’re sorry. I am teaching them that relationships in our family are flexible and durable enough to withstand hard moments.

Of course, none of this negates the importance of trying to master parenting anyway, even though we’ll never get there. This is the most important work I’ve ever done or will do, and it’s worth my time, energy, and hard work to try to learn as much as I can about it. It’s a tricky balance to manage—constantly trying to get better at parenting while acknowledging that there really is no getting better, there is no perfect parent, there is only this moment, this opportunity to connect with my children and offer them the best of myself that I can access at any given time.

I know all of this, but I get so caught up in who I think I should be—the parent who manages every situation perfectly and never loses it—that I forget everything I know about the reality of parenting. I bounce back and forth between the past (Why did I do that??) and the future (When will I ever get this parenting thing right??) that I totally miss the opportunities of the present moment: to take a breath, or a step away so I can find a moment of calm and compassion for myself, which I can then share with my daughters.

At the end of the mindful parenting class, our instructor shared the following quote by Leonard Cohen:

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in. 

These words capture the essence of mindfulness and mindful parenting so perfectly. In my mind, it’s about letting go of the ideal standards that so many of us hold ourselves to and choosing instead to find the beauty in each seemingly broken moment, even if that means letting go of it and moving on to the next one. It’s not easy, and there are far too many times when I become focused on what I have done wrong or what I should be doing. Whenever possible, though, I try to take a breath, refocus my attention, and find my way back into the present moment, into whatever my children are offering me.

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We’ve all been there. We’re standing in line at the grocery store or the pharmacy with a baby squirming in our arms and a toddler pulling at our pants when the person in line next to us (usually an older woman, but not always) looks over the scene of barely-controlled chaos before saying something along the lines of “Enjoy every minute. It goes by so quickly.”

I ‘ve heard some version of that little ditty more times than I can count. I usually respond with a weary smile, but what I really want to say is, “Really? REALLY? I’m exhausted, my four year’s old diet currently consists of boxed macaroni and cheese and blueberries, my two year old pooped in the tub again last night, they’ve both been tantruming like it’s going out of style, I can barely find my bed under the laundry, my husband is traveling again this week, and I am completely behind on all of my work deadlines, but thanks, yes, I’ll go right ahead and enjoy every minute.”

Perhaps a more mindful mother would be able to find the beauty in each moment of life (except the poop in the tub. There is nothing beautiful about poops in the tub). But the Dalai Mama I’m not, and statements about enjoying every minute with my children just leaving me feeling as though I’m doing something wrong because the truth is that there are far too many minutes when it’s all I can do to stay present, take a deep breath, and not lose it completely. And sometimes I can’t even do that.

The truth is that these parenting clichés drive me nuts. What I need, what I crave, are authentic, compassionate ideas about the real nature of parenting—I want phrases that resonate with my deeply imperfect reality. I’m looking for what my meditation teacher describes as mindful speaking, as staying close to our own experiences when we talk, and sharing from a place of kindness, compassion, and awareness. I fail at this several times each day, but I keep trying, I keep practicing.

In honor of mindful speaking, I’d like to revisit some of the more common parenting clichés, which, at their best are irrelevant, and at their worst, completely ignore or deny the experiences of so many parents.

Enjoy every moment. This is just not possible, and each time we offer this little gem to some poor soul barely holding it together, we are suggesting that not only is it possible, but that we have done it, and she should too. Just to be clear, the goal of mindful parenting is not to enjoy every moment, it’s to be present for as many moments as possible, whether they are enjoyable or not.

It’s just a phase. This is probably true, but it’s not helpful for parents who are waist-deep in the muck of whatever “phase” is currently keeping them up all night with a kid who won’t sleep or struggling to hang on to their last shred of sanity when it seems like every day has been reduced to a string of tantrums and conflicts. It may be just a phase, but for now, it’s reality and it’s all consuming.

Little kids, little problems; big kids, big problems. Ever time I hear this one, I think of my dear friends with infants in the NICU, struggling to breathe. I think of children with severe allergies that have landed them in the emergency room on more than one occasion, and I think of my friends (far too many of them) who have a child battling cancer. Those are little kids with very big problems. In addition, we all face challenges in parenting that might not be as serious as cancer or genetic illnesses, for example, but they feel big and scary and overwhelming nonetheless, and we need our fears to be acknowledged rather than belittled.

In lieu of these clichés, I’d like to offer some new ones, words that resonate with me and help me feel less alone in the craziness of parenting.

Parenting is hard. FULL STOP. No ifs or buts. It’s just hard. There’s nothing wrong with acknowledging this truth; it doesn’t mean we’re not good at taking care of our children if we don’t find it easy. Raising children is hard work, and that’s OK.

It’s important to take care of yourself. Often when I hear parents (usually mothers) talk about self-care, they’re apologizing or justifying or rationalizing time spent exercising, socializing, or sleeping when they could be doing something more productive like showing their children flashcards or cooking a 3-course meal. It’s enough already. If we can agree that parenting is hard work, then surely we can agree that we need to take care of ourselves in order to do this hard work. (Margarita Tartakovsky wrote a great piece about self-care for PsychCentral recently. I highly recommend it for all parents.)

We’ve all been there. It doesn’t matter where “there” is. If it’s somewhere in the world of parenting, chances are we’ve all been there at one point or another. Whether it’s the paralyzing love we feel our children, the unbridled rage, or the overwhelming fatigue, we’ve been there. We’ve all had moments of feeling competent and capable, and moments when we wonder what the hell the universe was thinking when it decided to put us in charge of another human being. But it’s hard to remember that we’re not alone, and sometimes we just need to hear it from someone else. (If you’re looking for an amazing post on just this topic, this one should help.)

The reality is that words matter, and what we say and what we hear shapes our experience of each other and ourselves. The next time I’m at the grocery store with two over-hungry, fussy kids, and some well-meaning stranger in line behind me feels the need to comment, I hope she says something about how hard parenting is, how we’ve all been there, and how she hopes I’m finding ways to take care of myself. Now that would be a parenting moment I could truly enjoy.

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Yesterday afternoon I made banana bread with my four year old daughter. To be honest, I’m not much of a cook and she’s not particularly interested in food preparation either, but we had a great time anyway. I didn’t snap, she didn’t whine, and neither of us threw a tantrum. After it was all over, I took some time to reflect on why it had worked out so well. I realized that it had nothing to do with what we were doing; I think we could have had just as much fun reading books or playing with blocks or baby dolls. The key was that for that hour, I gave her my undivided attention as we worked on a project together.

In all honesty, this is not a regular occurrence in our house. Even though I am alone with my daughters for several hours each afternoon, I’m usually trying to get dinner ready, giving them a bath or putting them to bed. While we may be doing these activities together, I’m either multi-tasking or  trying to teach them how to behave at the table or generally making them do something they would rather not do, like brush their teeth. Some days are more pleasant than others, but I wouldn’t usually call it fun.

While it may be possible to set aside an hour or half an hour each week to focus entirely on our kids, it’s not possible to do it every day (at least not in my house). The good news is that they don’t need that much every day; they just need a few minutes a few times a day to connect with us – to really connect, without other distractions. I like to think of it as fueling their tank (and mine, too). They tend to behave better and I’m more responsive and patient when we have even five minutes of solid connection, when I’m sitting on the couch or the floor with my girls (but always at their level) and just listening and being with them. I find that it’s most important and useful during transitions: first thing in the morning, or right when we get home from school and daycare, before we all get caught up in whatever is coming next, whether it’s breakfast or dinner, getting out the door or getting into pajamas. Those five minutes help me get a sense of how they are feeling so I know what to expect and I can be more attuned to what they need. In return, they tend to be happier, calmer, and more helpful. It’s a win-win for all of us, and it just takes a few minutes.

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It has been a tough week, and I am exhausted. I live just outside of Boston, and the bombing on Monday shook me to my core. I’ve cried every day this week. I’ve cried for the three people who died (including a young boy), I’ve cried for the hundreds who were injured, and I’ve cried for the individuals who will never be able to erase the sights, sounds, and smells of that terrible incident from their memories.

And I’ve cried for myself, for the fear that has overwhelmed me since I first heard the news of what happened, in the middle of a lovely afternoon at the park. The sun was out, the weather had finally warmed up, and the girls and I were having a great time. And then another mother told us that two bombs had gone off at the finish line.

I haven’t been able to find my footing since then. I was sitting in meditation this morning, and every time I closed my eyes, I felt as though I was going to fall over. I finished my meditation with my eyes open.

My daughters, just two and four, have no idea what happened, and I have no intention of telling them. I’d love to tell you that even as my mind and heart are reeling, life at home has gone on as usual. But it’s not true. I’ve been feeling anxious and scared. Not unlike when my daughters feel similarly, I have been a bit crispier, a bit more fragile, a bit more likely to crumble around the edges. When that happens, I lose my patience, and I snap at the girls.

That is the painful irony of, course. I take out my stress on the people most important to me, the ones I am most terrified of losing when something like this happens.

The reality is that just as I will never be the same person that I was before 9/11, I will never be the same parent that I was before the marathon was bombed. More than ever, I am inspired to find ways to stay present and grounded in the moment so I can engage with my children, my friends, my community, and myself from a place of strength and kindness, rather than fear and anxiety.

And so I sat this morning. I sat and breathed and nearly fell over. Rather than giving up and putting off my meditation for another morning (as I so desperately wanted to do), I opened my eyes, felt the ground beneath me, and I stayed. In that moment, if only for a moment, I felt a respite from the sadness over what has happened and anxiety about what may yet come. In that moment, I found a little bit of strength and a little bit of peace.

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Jizo Necklace. jizoandchibi.com

3 Things for Mom is one of my new favorite Mommy blogs. (Sorry, Dads, but this one does seem geared towards the maternal crew.) Each post features a truth, a tip, and a find by different writers, and many of them are truly inspirational. In honor of this great new blog, I thought I’d offer a Mindful Parenting version with a truth, a tip, and a find, about kindness and parenting.

Truth

“The way we talk to ourselves influences the way we parent. So often we don’t understand what our child is expressing because we’re caught up in our own thoughts or feelings . . . We see how we generate much of our own suffering through what we tell ourselves or through our desire to have things be different from how they are now . . . May we pay attention with kindness to what is happening within us and within our children.”- Denise Roy, MOMfulness: Mothering with Mindfulness, Compassion, and Grace

Tip

Bring more kindness into your life by practicing a brief loving kindness meditation each day. I really like the one outlined on this handout by the folks at Washington State University, and Dr. Christine Carter of the Greater Good Science Foundation shares some tips on her blog, Raising Happiness. Finally, you can delve a little deeper with WildMind’s 100 Days of Lovingkindness Challenge, which starts tomorrow!

Find

My husband recently bought me a beautiful necklace from Jizo & Chibi. The artist behind these beautiful pieces is a psychotherapist and mindfulness practitioner. I love my Jizo necklace, as it reminds me to take a breath and respond from a place of calm kindness whenever possible. (This is a great idea for any of you Dads out there looking for a Mother’s Day gift!)

Needless to say, I was thrilled to find out that my daughter is also learning about these concepts from her daycare providers and preschool teachers. She came home the other day talking about a book in which a cow gets really mad and then learns to meditate from his grandfather. (I mentioned it on my Facebook page and got a great response!)

Our copy of “Moody Cow Meditates” by Kerry Lee Maclean arrived yesterday, and my daughters were excited to read it. It’s a lovely story, and was very age appropriate for my 4 year old. Some of the concepts may have been a bit advanced for my younger daughter (she’s not yet 3), but she seemed to enjoy it quite a bit anyway.

The story is told from the perspective of a young cow who has a terrible day and finally gets so mad that he throws a ball through a glass window. His mother responds by sending Moody Cow to meditate with his grandfather. The grandfather teaches him a lovely technique in which they create a “Mind Jar” by dropping sparkles representing Moody Cow’s angry thoughts into a jar of water, shaking it up, and watching it all settle.

It’s a wonderful meditation practice for children, just the sort I had been looking for. The illustrations are great and the easy-to-follow story line kept my girls interested. My four year old immediately understood the idea of dropping her angry thoughts into the water and watching them settle. The concrete physical steps made the abstract ideas of thoughts, feelings, and letting go more accessible to her.

But there’s more than that to it. Grandfather takes his grandson (grandcow?) seriously, and listens carefully as Moody Cow describes all of the reasons why he is so angry. He lets Moody Cow talk about his feelings, and then, rather than telling him he’s wrong to feel that way, or that he needs to behave better or think differently, Grandfather helps Moody Cow experience, and then let go of, his difficult feelings. It’s a wonderful example of mindful parenting and mindful living.

Finally, I liked this book because there are no religious references (making it accessible to every family), and the Mind Jar activity is so straightforward that it can be used by any child (or adult, really!) who is interested in a quick and easy way to focus their attention and calm their thoughts and feelings.

The book comes with simple instructions for building your own Mind Jar, as well as a link to the Mind Jar app for iPhone or iPad. My daughter also had the great idea of using our glitter wands as a modified Mind Jar, and a snow globe would work as well.

My girls and I enjoyed the book and Mind Jar app so much that I’ve ordered a copy of one of McLean’s other books, Peaceful Piggy Meditation.

What books or techniques have you used to teach meditation and mindfulness to your young children? I’d love to know!

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My four year old daughter has taken to dancing naked whenever the opportunity arises. She’s never been one to take off her clothes at random times (thank goodness for small favors!), but each morning and night, it’s go time. The minute she’s fully undressed, she starts wiggling and twisting, shaking her hips, throwing her arms in the air and sashaying across the room. Music or no music, it doesn’t matter. She’ll dance until she collapses on the floor in giggles.

It’s adorable and hilarious. It’s my daughter at her best: creative, funny, silly, completely comfortable in her own skin, and grateful for an audience.

I love being that audience. Most of the time. Far too often, though, I was focused on trying to wrangle my daughters into their pajamas or their clothes, pushing them through the transition so we could get on to the next step in our day. I was missing out on the good moments.

It wasn’t until I started practicing mindfulness that I began to slow down and enjoy my daughter’s performances on a regular basis. I initially came to mindfulness and meditation because I wanted to respond to my kids’ worst moments with more compassion and empathy than I had previously been able to offer. I wanted to be kind and patient, instead of snappy and rushed. I don’t always get it right, for sure, but my mindfulness practice certainly helps. More often than before, I find myself pulling a crying child onto my lap rather than barking at her to calm down. (Even as I write that sentence, I realize what a ridiculous strategy it was, but it was all I had at the time.)

Mindfulness is about being present and compassionate in the moment, whatever that moment may look like. What I have come to learn – the unexpected gift of the practice –  is that the more mindful I am, the more likely that I will be there (wherever there is!) for the good moments as well as the bad ones. And as so many parents know, the good moments of parenting can be really, really good.

My children – all children – need their parents to be present and soothing when they are feeling sad, frustrated, or angry. That’s how they learn to soothe themselves, an invaluable skill that will serve them well throughout the course of their lives. But they also need us to be present and connected when they are at their best, when they are dancing and twirling to the songs only they can hear. They need to see their happiness, joy, and creativity reflected in our faces, in the connection between us.

The truth is that I need it, too. Parenting isn’t easy, and while it may be meaningful for me to soothe my children when they need it, it’s also exhausting. Those ridiculous moments of naked dancing energize me and make me happy. They are the good stuff of parenting, and mindfulness has helped me to truly savor them, as I know they won’t last long.

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A few months ago, I wrote a post about deleting all of the apps from my iPhone in an effort to be more present with my children. I’m sure none of you will be surprised to learn that those apps are back.

Here’s what happened. In the first few days after I removed the apps, I became intensely aware of all of the ways in which I had been using my phone. I was unable to share pictures of my girls with their grandparents and great-grandparents, and I missed reading the status updates from friends and family members. I couldn’t check the news or the weather or any of the blogs I read regularly. As we only have one TV, and it’s rarely on during the day, and my computer is up in our office, I felt quite disconnected. I quickly found myself using the internet app (which I hadn’t removed) to access everything online, which was fine, but certainly less convenient.

And here’s the thing: deleting the apps on my iPhone didn’t fundamentally change my parenting style or the extent to which I am present with my children. What really mattered was whether or not I chose to engage my awareness, to truly be with my kids. The reality is that sometimes my girls need my presence and my connection, and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes I have it to give, and sometimes I don’t. And sometimes I just get it wrong.

Life, and parenting, would be so much easier if there were clear answers, obvious rights and wrongs. The truth is that my beloved iPhone is an mobile double-edged sword. Yes, there are moments when it distracts me, as Tonya describes so beautifully on her blog. And there are also times when being constantly connected allows me to be with my girls when I might not otherwise be able to, as I wrote about on Kveller.com, and Megan Cobb wrote about so eloquently on Fried Okra. Both writers offer fundamentally different views of Moms on their iPhones, and they’re both accurate. We need to let go of our either/or mentality, and realize that it’s actually both/and. But both/and is hard. It’s messy. It requires us to use our own judgment, and it means that sometimes we are going to make the wrong choice.

Parents aren’t the only ones struggling with the role of technology in our lives, and the extent to which it may interfere with or support our ability to be mindful and present. It’s an issue for everyone. Michael Melcher believes that smartphones represent the opposite of mindfulness. Meanwhile, a forum at the Harvard School of Public Health described a number of ways in which our smartphones can help us be more mindful. It’s a both/and world out there.

My husband and I were recently discussing my decision to use my apps again, and I mentioned that deleting them hadn’t really made a difference. “Look,” he said, “the reality is that there are no short-cuts in parenting.” He’s absolutely right. There is an abundance of blog posts out there (my piece on deleting the apps on my iPhone is an excellent example!) that spell out all sorts of rules and ideas for how we can take short-cuts in parenting. Yes, there are things we can do that might make some of the tasks of parenting easier, but the actual work of raising children, the hard stuff, the real stuff, the meaty, thick, beautiful, confusing, painful, gorgeous interactions that really matter, that really show our kids who we are to them, and who they are to us–there are no short-cuts for those. Those are the moments when we need to do our best to show up, be present, and be kind. Sometimes we’ll get it right, and sometimes we won’t, regardless of whether or not we have a phone in our hand. There are a million things that can distract us, many of them constantly racing through our own minds.

The good news is that our children are resilient. They don’t need us to be perfect. They just need us to keep trying.

The question still remains, though. What should we be doing with our iPhones? Well, I’m going to keep using mine–to stay connected and at times, to return to mindfulness. The truth is that we can’t be mindful all the time, but we can take steps that can make it easier and more natural to re-engage with the present moment, starting with a regular mindfulness practice, both formal and informal. So I’m going to strive for both–using my iPhone AND returning to a mindful engagement in parenting whenever possible.

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