Just Keep Swimming

I honestly can't remember when I last wrote a post.  (bad, bad K).   It usually only takes 3 or 4 days of no writing or some other creative output to cause me to shrivel up like, well...like my plants in our brown front yard.  I've been throwing all of my spare time and energy into starting up my photography business and wow, is it overwhelming.  Fun, but overwhelming.  Between reading blogs and tutorials, studying rules of exposure, composition, color, etc., researching marketing and branding strategies, and working with Jake to launch a new website and corresponding blog, there just hasn't been much time to do anything else that I love.

But admittedly, I haven't been the best at managing my time.  When I first decided to pack in the piano-lesson teaching and shift my artistic gears into neutral, I figured I would just take things day by day.  I'd work from home, when I could.   I heard and believed rumors of phenomena like napping children and creative space.  Oh, and energy (how silly of me).  A few years from now when my babes are in school, I'll probably shed a tear or two (they miiiight just be happy ones) and be grateful to have had these precious, fleeting and frustrating years with them.  But I also think I might find myself standing in my silent kitchen, which for once isn't littered with tupperware lids and bread crusts, and think, "I saw that going differently in my mind."

The truth is, I'm not good at making choices.  Never have been.  Even now, standing in the makeup aisle of Target can nearly give me a panic attack.   Jake learned early on in our relationship to never, ever ask me where I wanted to eat.  I'd change my mind seventeen times before we finally landed on a restaurant and by that point, we were both too crabby and hungry to talk to each other for the first half of our meal.

But those are just little things.

There was the time I lost a scholarship to VCU because I decided at the very last minute that I wasn't sure I actually wanted to major in music anymore.  I decided that maybe I'd like to write, be a journalist. So I picked a track in mass communications. And precisely one semester later, I was back in the music office filling out a change of major form.

Seven years and one Bachelor's Degree in Music Education later,  I'm now using the years I spent holed up in musty practice rooms to....um, launch my photography business.  The piano is sitting dormant in the corner of our dining room collecting dust, and if given the choice, I'd still grab a pen and paper before I'd even think of parking my butt on that piano bench.  I've also decided that if Ella or Milo should tell me they want to major in music, I will probably have to bite clear through my own tongue to keep from saying anything.  It will be their choice, not mine.  (Repeats over and over).

And it's ironic, how much I hate having to choose, because I find myself in a season of life where I'm having to make more choices than ever before.  Some I make all by myself.  Some, life makes for me.  (I'm still not sure which ones I tend to resent more).  Hands down, the easiest decision I make in a given day is deciding which creamer to put in my coffee.  From there, it gets much more complicated:

"Do I sit down on the floor and play with my kids or do I turn on a movie so I can send out those emails?"  

"Do I clean the bathrooms while they nap, or do I finish editing those photos?"  

"Should Jake and I take the evening to reconnect, or should we work on our individual projects after the kids go to sleep?"  

"Do I play with my camera, or do I write?"

"Meditate, or work-out?"

And somewhere, in between every choice I make or don't make, there's that tiny voice that tells me I shouldn't have to choose.  Why can't I just do it all?   Because I can if I really try.  I'm just not doing it right yet.  

It reeks of immaturity.  A voice that preys especially on the young, the energetic, the eternally optimistic.  It dupes us into believing exactly what marketing companies around the world are paid the big bucks to make us believe:  we can do it all, have it all, be it all.  And if we can't, don't, and aren't- then we're obviously not trying hard enough.  Period.  

So this voice accompanied me out of high school, into college, through my engagement and early years of marriage, and got ever louder until I couldn't discern which was my own voice anymore.  It finally took panic attacks and trips to counseling to make me realize there was no other choice than to have it bound and gagged.  

And yet, like a cockroach in a nuclear holocaust, it refuses to die.  Although not anywhere near as loud and obnoxious as it once was, there are still echoes of it in my day to day life.  Like, my first inclination to be frustrated with myself that I let my blog fall to the wayside.  Because, why shouldn't I be able to have the time to write up my business plan, blog, have tickle fights with the kids, cook, take care of the house, go to doctor appointments, have playdates, have long conversations with Jake over dinner, visit with family, balance the checkbook, shave my legs, actually open the new Pilates DVD I ordered 4 months ago.  In reality, I'm extremely lucky if all of the above happens in the span of a week.

Big time reality check.

I don't have anything figured out.  I don't know what I'm doing.  Both my kids are screaming upstairs in their rooms, fighting naptime, I have paperwork to fill out and submit for my business license, and I haven't figured out what I'm making for dinner tonight.  But for now, I've decided that the best way to reel myself back in is with an open bag of chocolate chips and a cup of coffee.  

There are many people and forces in my life that require my steady grace and patience.  But it never ceases to amaze me on days like today, that the person who always needs it most, is myself.

And so I take comfort in the words of a beloved blue fish on Ella's current favorite movie:

"Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.  Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. What do we do?  We swim, swim."

(And also, don't forget to come up for air).  

Wise fish, that Dory.

Dear Ella. . .

Dear Ella,

We have not had the best day today. My mommy brain is trying desperately to understand what the big difference is between the clementine I handed you for a snack and the one you said you wanted. They are both orange. They are both round. They are the same size. Neither one of them has splotches.

But you wanted "dat one." As in, the one that I hadn't already just peeled and painstakingly de-seeded (for the love of all things holy, why aren't ALL clementines seedless?) And because it was only 9:20 a.m. and my second cup of coffee hadn't fully kicked in, I decided I was too tired to peel "dat one right dare."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say to you this morning.

And then about an hour later, I tried ever so gently to explain to you, sweetie, that blueberry muffins don't just materialize out of thin air. I know it hurts. Mommy has wished the same would happen with peanut M&M's and Double Stuf Oreos. But now, our next door neighbors have also been made aware that we have no muffins.

Remember when we played hide and seek this morning while Milo took his nap and I was hiding behind the shower curtain in the downstairs bathroom? Well, I wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry because I didn't actually tell you that we were playing hide and seek. I just went and hid there and played Words With Friends for six beautiful, solitary minutes while you took a brief hiatus from whining and danced to the Fresh Beats.

It was just one of those days, I guess. And the rain didn't help. I hated that it rained this morning, which meant that we couldn't go swing. Believe me, I wanted nothing more than to go to the playground too. All mommies know that the playground = long naps and God knows Mommy needed that kind of a nap from you today.

I just want you to know, Bug, that I'm trying to see things from your perspective- really, I am. I understand that you didn't want to put your pants on before we went to Target. And although I do want to indulge your flair for the dramatic, I draw the line at letting you hop down from the cart and walk around on all fours, pretending to be a cat while we're in Target. I'm also sorry that your legs aren't long enough yet to reach the pedals of Mommy's car that you wanted to pretend to drive when we got home, which somehow meant that I was supposed to carry you up the front walkway into the house, but in doing so, made you scream even louder that you wanted to go back outside and walk in the house by yourself all over again.

Oh, and I'm sorry I laughed in your face today when you cried so hard that you farted. Mommy doesn't mean to invalidate your feelings, sweetie. It's just that if I don't laugh, I'll cry too. It just seemed like the better option at the time. I did cry though, while you were reading your book to me at naptime. Two little wispy tears that rolled out of the corners of both of my eyes that you couldn't see while I tilted my head back and gazed at the ceiling in your room and listened to your sweet sing-songy voice. And in that moment, I prayed I wouldn't remember that, barely five minutes before, I was pleading and cajoling- practically selling my soul to the devil himself- to get you to go upstairs and take your nap. I just prayed that I would only remember you "reading" to me about the little boy and his penguin who wanted to fly.

You know how you like to pretend to fill up the gas tank in your car? Well, Mommy's tank is sitting on empty today. "Running on fumes" is probably a more accurate description. But it doesn't mean that I love you any less. It just means Mommy is tired. But that's why God invented 7:30 bedtimes. I used to think it was because that's when YOU go to bed, but now, I think it's because he knew that parents would fall into their own beds, exhausted, at ten minutes after eight on a Thursday night. I've come to terms with the fact that some days, being "mommy" to you and your brother takes extra amounts of a lot of things that I don't have even sufficient amounts of-- patience, energy, grace, humor, humility, perspective, adventure.





Oh, and blueberry muffins.






So, thanks for being patient with ME.







Love you to the moon and back....

P52 Challenge: I Have a Dream

Back in the worst years of my anxiety, I thought I would never be able to function a part from depending on anti-anxiety meds. I wasn't sure that I could do anything on my own without some kind of safety net underneath to catch me. This weeks photo challenge is called, "I have a dream" in honor of the late Dr. Martin Luther King. I thought a lot about my dreams and aspirations and how I'm 29 years old with two kids and still haven't decided what I want to be when I grow up. But when I look back at the me from my early 20's, I realize that perhaps I'm already living out a dream that at one point, I thought I'd never see- to be healthy and happy. This, I'm sure, had to happen before any of my other dreams could be realized. So today, I'm grateful for the baby steps, the-two-steps-forward-and-one-step-backs, for grace that has been extended to me above and beyond what I deserve, and for the beautiful life that I'm living, not because I've learned to live without anxiety, but in spite of it.



Linking up to My3boybarians P52 challenge!

"Kristin, Meet Change."

"Action and reaction, ebb and flow, trial and error, change - this is the rhythm of living. Out of our over-confidence, fear; out of our fear, clearer vision, fresh hope. And out of hope, progress." (Bruce Barton)

Some people love change. I'm not one of them. Oh, I like the idea of change. Won't it be great for Ella to have a brother or sister? Wouldn't it be nice to move back to the city? What if I were to start up my own business from scratch or go back to school- how awesome would that be? The truth is- all of those things are awesome. But my downfall is that I tend to idealize the end result without considering all the steps that have to happen in between. For example, when we started trying for #2, it didn't really occur to me that my second pregnancy would be the emotional roller-coaster that it was, nor that I would be sick for a good two-thirds of it. I just pictured two little cherubs sitting on the floor together, giggling and eating ice cream cones. (For the record, both kids have yet to actually sit on the floor together eating ice cream cones and giggling, but I'll sure as hell take a picture of it for posterity's sake if it happens).

And then there was our plan to move back into the city. That's been about as fun as, well, moving with two small kids is (in other words, I have gray hairs now). I remembered back to when we moved right after we got married- how I sat for hours on our kitchen floor, sipping coffee, gingerly flipping through cookbooks and enjoying the entire process of unpacking my kitchen, taking my time deciding where each knick-knack went. For some bizarre, illogical reason, I pictured myself doing the same thing again this time, then proceeded to scare Jake (and even myself) by my tazmanian devil-like antics as I hurriedly shoved pots, pans and cookie sheets into any available cabinet during naptime one day (still haven't found my butter-dish, but that's another story). Again, I pictured our new house and my mind went in a thousand directions simultaneously about how I wanted to decorate each room. I pinned the crap out of my boards on Pinterest. I pictured Jake and I perusing stores for various statement pieces, artwork, etc. I decided we would go antique-ing and try to have all original, one-of-a-kind pieces. Then I envisioned our backyard and the future garden we would plant so that when Ella and Milo got done giggling and eating their ice cream cones on the floor, they could mosey on outside and pick their own tomatoes and peppers...

What's that, you say? Moving costs money? Oh, right.

What's that? My daughter doesn't even like vegetables? {sigh}


So I sometimes get excited about the thought of change. But I have to admit that these days, that excitement is relegated mostly to getting my hair highlighted or the season's latest trends. In all honesty, there's been quite a bit of change (aside from the aforementioned ones). Here's the quick run-down: I gave birth in February and have since been attempting the transition from one to two kids. Haven't mastered it- probably never will. Jake's responsibilities at his work increased ten-fold soon after Milo was born, adding additional stress on his end. Then, our best friends moved 6 hours away. A month later, we moved out of the house that we were newlyweds/new parents in. My parents also moved back into town after being away for three years. And last, but certainly not least, the faith community we've been a part of that had for so long been a place of stability started transitioning and undergoing some pretty major changes. I had been plugging along, keeping myself busy, noticing that life was actually quite different, but not really accepting it, until one day out of the blue (or perhaps, not so out of the blue) I found myself driving home from a meeting with our faith community, completely broken. All of those changes had finally caught up to me, forcing me to finally acknowledge them. As the tears fell, all I could sputter and sob to Jake was that nothing felt familiar anymore. I felt alone. I was supposed to feel happy, because overall, most of the changes were good. Instead, I felt bewildered. "Life" just looked so different from how I had pictured it in my head not even a year ago.

And that's probably the bigger issue: I get an idea about how something should be, and I think it should be that way mostly because it maintains my sense of comfort. So many times, I pray and ask God to give me the change I want- on my terms- because, silly girl that I am, I think I should be able to call the shots. Then, when change comes knocking on my door, bringing it's two BFF's "awkwardness" and "uncertainty," I act surprised, as if that wasn't part of the game plan.

So yeah, there's been a lot of awkwardness in the last few months. There's been inconvenience. There have been moments when I've gotten my panties in a wad and declared, "I didn't sign up for this!" But the reality is that I can let the change make me or break me, but one thing is certain- it's always around the corner. I may not always welcome it with open arms, but in these last few weeks, I think I've finally began to understand that underneath the awkwardness, uncertainty and discomfort, all changes are capable of narrating a beautiful story- even a redemptive one, if I let them.

So here's to continuing on with the narrative with all of it's moments- the good, the awkward and hopefully, the poignant.

The Forgotten Four Letter Word

There's a scene in Sex and the City 2 where Charlotte is in the kitchen frantically making cupcakes with her oldest daughter while her younger daughter is in her highchair screaming and throwing a hissy fit. Her older daughter then smears bright red handprints all over the back of Charlotte's cream vintage Valentino skirt, at which point, Charlotte declares a mommy time-out, locks herself in her pantry and starts to cry.

That was me yesterday. Minus the vintage Valentino skirt and gorgeous apartment in upper Manhattan.

In those moments, I struggle against the compulsion to feel ashamed and to feel like I've taken the mommy test and gotten a big, fat FAIL. I even tell myself it's okay when shit goes down in the comfort of my own home and no one else has to see it because then I don't have to tell anyone about it. Then, it's almost like it didn't actually happen. It's a terribly lonely feeling though- not to talk about it. And the reality is that I'm not alone, or unique, in dealing with the really sucky parts of parenting. My best friend texted me a few weeks ago and told me that she, too, was having the Charlotte York Goldenblatt meltdown-in-the-pantry kind of day. Maybe for some, it's the kind of day when you want to wear something other than faded yoga capri pants and a crusty tank-top with remnants of either dried food or poop. Or when you go out on a limb by wearing something cute or new or- hell, just something clean- only to have it spit up on. If you take days like those, toss in a few tantrums, a headache that won't respond to any over-the-counter medicine, you will arrive at a moment when locking yourself in the pantry or bathroom seems like an entirely appropriate alternative. Just slip mommy some of her special pills under the door, please, and GO THE EFF AWAY.

Today, we were leaving the beach when Ella had what I can undoubtedly say was her worst tantrum yet. As I carried her further away from the ocean (she refused to walk), the crying quickly escalated to all out screaming, kicking and writhing. You know it's bad when you're outside at the beach with all of it's other ambient beachy noise and people can still hear your child over all of it. People stared as she did the "limp rag doll" when I tried to put her down. A few times I admittedly just let her drop and roll around on the sand, just so I could catch my breath. A few passers-by gave that knowing "been-there-done-that" apologetic look. I slung her upside down by her feet over my shoulders while she punched and scratched and clawed and kicked and made sounds that didn't sound human. A couple of people even stopped to ask us if we needed help. (Or perhaps they were wondering if they should call child protective services). By the time we got out to our car, I totally expected to see her head do a 360 degree rotation a la Linda Blair in the Exorcist. (Okay, maybe a little strong...but I swear, sometimes demon possession is the closest thing to illustrating the bi-polar mood swings of your average 2 year old).

It was painfully obvious to me on that walk back to our car that I was that mom. My cheeks burned with shame. I was the one who couldn't control her kid. The one that I, myself, had once shot pitiful glances to in the grocery store or in restaurants years ago when I had the pleasure of going sans children. And here I was, now crying right alongside my daughter who was fighting too hard for me to even attempt buckling her in her carseat. At that moment, I desperately wanted that pantry to lock myself in. I wanted to hide my tears and utter helplessness. I wanted desperately to save face. But even greater than all of those things was my gratitude for my best friend and my husband who were there to first, help get Ella strapped into her seat and then, to hand me a paper bag to breathe in and tell me that I wasn't a bad mom. I was just a normal mom going through yet another kind of refining fire. It wasn't a relief, but it was truth.

So the pressing question: why try to save face in moments like those? When there are a plethora of other four letter words that can (and did) escape my lips, why is it that the hardest one for me to say is "help?".

Motherhood isn't for wimps, that's for damn sure.

Today, Right This Minute.

It's one of those days.

I went to bed last night ready to wake up and tackle the day, ready to hit the ground running. But it's 6:49 a.m and the day has already tackled me, has me pinned to the mat. My throat aches, my head throbs, my body is heavy- and not just in reference to the last 10 lbs of baby weight that are still holding onto my thighs for dear life. I imagine for one second that I can just turn over and go back to sleep for a few hours. (Okay, a few days). What if I could just go make a cup of tea, soak myself to the bone in a steamy shower and give myself even an hour to try and swim out of my dense, foggy state?

Today right this minute, I feel broken. I feel sick. Correction: I am sick. Jake is out the door for work at 8:05 and I realize we've barely even spoken this morning. I miss him. Odd how you can miss someone who sleeps beside you every night. I miss talking to him. I miss having coherent thoughts of my own. There may not be that much space between us, but there's just enough distance to fit two small, precious children. Will that distance grow as quickly as they do? I'm afraid of becoming a statistic: a husband and wife who essentially become glorified roommates, sharing a mortgage and divvying up chores and after school activities. I know deep down that we're okay, and that we'll always be okay- and that even when we're not, we'll find our way back. We always have. But today, I wish I was a little more "wife," and a little less "mommy." I wish my body belonged to me again. And so I continue my love/hate relationship with breastfeeding. 3 months down, 9 to go? Maybe only 6?

I sit on the couch listening to Ella chatter in her room and today, right this minute, I don't feel like I'm enough for her. She'll want to go outside and play. She'll want me to get down on the floor and wrestle with her and I know I don't have it in me. So it'll be a morning with Nick Jr and all of our animated friends. I have all of the theme songs memorized. Actually, so does she. Why does that suddenly make feel guilty? The minutes are ticking before Milo will wake up and want to eat. Do people actually hire wet nurses anymore? Where would I even go to look for one? Okay, back to reality.

But my mind wanders. On mornings like these, I play a dangerous game of "what ifs." What if I had a normal 9-5 job, sitting in a cubie climbing out from a mountain of emails and sitting in hopelessly boring and/or unproductive meetings? I would probably call in sick today and put my "out of office" message on my voicemail. I can't be reached. I'm not available. Don't bother. Go away. I'll get back to you tomorrow.

But I can't say that to my almost 2 year old. Nope.

The boss will be needing a clean diaper soon. And then her waffles and yogurt, with a side of strawberries. Then there are the bills, the laundry, the inevitable blowouts and tantrums and spilled sippy cups. Today, I will find a way to keep my head above water at least until naptime, when I can let myself succumb to the tears that I know she won't understand.

The truth is that if I did have that 9-5 job I sometimes visualize in my mind, there's a very good chance that I'd spend at least 6 of those 8 hours thinking about and missing my babies. I need to remember that today. Being a mommy is hard, especially right this minute. But may there be long naps and early bedtimes for us all tonight.

Why Cry Over Spilled Milk?

Have you ever thrown a perfectly good piece of meat at the wall recently? My guess is that you haven't. But I have. And although it was instantly regretted, it felt pretty darn exhilarating for that one second. So why did I throw a 6 oz. steak at my wall? Why the drama?

Hormones. It's as simple-and as complicated- as that.

Before anyone should think I make a habit of throwing (read: hurling) food across the room, let me break it down even further: I was ravenously hungry. It was 9 o'clock at night. Jake had been to the store after work to pick up my "filet" which he was told they didn't sell (seriously, what reputable grocery chain doesn't sell filets??) He came home, bathed Ella and gave her dinner, all while I had a fussy 3 week old hanging from my left boob- and then my right. and then my left again- all because of this very torturous phenomenon called "cluster feeding." It was the end of my first week home with both kids and my state of being was catatonic, at best. I had 3 hours of sleep the night before. And 3 hours the night before that...and the night before that...and all the way back for about a month. After a very long and draining week, I was somehow managing to keep my calm, convinced that restoration was coming to me in the form of a juicy filet and a velvety glass of Cabernet.

I sat down, took one bite of the steak, and started to cry. It was tough and chewy. It wasn't a filet. I decided that I couldn't drink my wine with a piece of meat that tasted like that. That would be a waste. Of course, if I couldn't eat the steak or drink the wine, I couldn't eat the baked potato and green beans either. It all had to go together, damnit. This was the meal I had been salivating over all day and it was ruined. Poor Jake. He did the best he could- it wasn't his fault. But I could feel the anger welling up in me. (Apparently, I don't cry over spilled milk, but I have the surprising ability to go ape shit over my red meat. Go figure). So when the bulging vein on my forehead appeared, my sweet husband quickly offered to go out and pick up another steak for me.

But I suddenly realized I had to leave. I had to get out. I didn't want him to go get me a steak. It wasn't about the food anymore. Sure, I wanted to sit down and enjoy a nice steak dinner and a movie while the babies slept, but I also wanted to be able to keep my eyes open past 8:30 p.m. I wanted to be able to run out to Target to get toilet paper and Tylenol without taking 45 minutes to pack up the kids, load them into the car and make it home before Milo screamed his head off needing to eat. I wanted to not smell like sour milk. I wanted jeans that could hide my post-partum muffin top. Even more, I wanted the muffin top to magically disappear, along with the stubborn 15 extra pounds hanging around my thighs. I wanted to be able to use the bathroom by myself or disappear into our bedroom to fold clothes without being followed. I wanted sleep. Sweet, beautiful, elusive sleep. Precious REM cycles. I wanted to feel like I wasn't failing at this "being a mom to two kids" thing. I wanted validation. I wanted to know that at some point, it HAD to get better.

I decided in that instant, I didn't want him to go get me a steak. I wanted him to go get me my life back.

It was almost as if my hand involuntarily reached down to my plate and chucked it before I could even tell myself to stop. And so the tough, chewy steak ricocheted off my wall, leaving a T-bone shaped A-1 stain above the kitchen sink and I proceeded to storm out of the house in tears, (begging the question- who was the real 2 year old in the house?) I got in the car and drove-not entirely sure where I was going- and had a good, ugly cry- you know, the kind with uncontrollable sobs and hiccups and mascara stains all down my neck and shirt. Several minutes later, I eventually arrived at my senses- and at the closest Outback Steakhouse. (I still really wanted steak). While I was waiting for my order, I waited for the guilt to subside. First, that I had acted like a 2 year old and actually thrown my food. And then there was all the mom guilt- those voices that show up to kick you while you're already bruised and bleeding. "You thought you could handle 2 kids. You thought you were ready. You'll never be enough for them both. You're destined to buy stock in waterproof mascara because you'll probably be crying every day for the next 6 months. Your husband could never find you attractive looking like this..." I thought surely Jake was pissed that I had stormed out like that. He was probably just as fed up with me as I was fed up with me, if not more. I was almost afraid to go back home.

And then I got the text. "Are you okay?"

He wanted me to come home. He wasn't angry. He just wanted me to be home.

I picked up my order and drove back in silence. When I walked in, my mess had already been cleaned up and the steak was resting in the garbage can, where I should have thrown it to begin with. I sat down to eat in silence, unable to think of an apology that could possibly make up for the way I had acted. Before any words could come out, the tears interrupted them all over again. Without a word, he reached over and pulled me to him and I realized that nothing else about that night really mattered anymore. Because if I have learned anything about this life I have made with my husband- and this life that we're building with our children- it's that there is room to mess up. There is room to bawl your eyes out and be scared. And come to find out, there's even room enough in our tiny kitchen to test the stain-resistance of our walls. Who'd have guessed?

So these hormones might be here in abundance, but so is love. But love will still be here in abundance long after the hormones have disappeared, and that's all that really matters at the end of the day. And as for sleep? Well, I'm told that it will return in abundance at some point too. I just hope it will be sometime before they start high school...

Worth Repeating to Myself (and other ramblings from the previous year)

I have stood on the edge of Unknown,
And peered timidly over
I have held on too tightly and let go too soon,
I have jumped without looking,
Fallen without caring,
Been caught without question.

I have been there, done that, regretted
Then wished I could do it again
I have stood hours in line to wait my turn
Then backed out at the last possible second
I have lost battles
Stolen moments
Remembered promises
Forgotten hurts.

I have fought demons
Removed bandages
Punctured old wounds
Needed a tourniquet
Wanted drugs.
I have gotten drunk off bitterness
After just one sip
Then tasted the joy of sweet release
I have found approval
Too many times
Hanging on a sale rack
I have paid too much for a pair of shoes
And sold my soul for cheap.


I have made friends
and created new traditions
I have burned bridges,
Trashed memories
Run without looking back
I have laughed 'til it hurt
Cried 'til it was numb
Pretended it didn't matter.
I have shared secrets
And hoarded truth.
I have f***ed up.
Over
and over.
I have come to the end of myself
to find the beginning of grace.


But most of all,
I have loved
And I have been loved.

Things I Know For Sure

1. I'm a round, walking mass of hormones (might as well start with the obvious). I think I can best describe it as OCD meets Alanis Moriestte meets a Lifetime tear-jerker marathon. Believe it or not, I can move fluidly between all three scenarios in a matter of 4.2 seconds. Just ask my husband. I'm convinced that if I could step out of my own skin (which I would gladly do at this point), I would be both highly amused and completely wigged out by the metamorphosis.

2. I married a very good, good man. There is just no other way to say it. I think sometimes he might be scared of me (see #1) in this very pregnant state that I'm in. When he wraps his arms around me, his hands now barely clasp behind my back, but those wordless hugs do something to restore my soul that nothing else can. (I love you babe. ;) ).

3. There is no limit to God's grace.

4. There is, however, a limit to mine. Some days, I feel like I reach it about 26 times an hour and it's at those times I remind myself of #3.

5. I can eat chicken enchiladas at 10 pm and go to bed without even a hint of heartburn, but a handful of Craisins will inevitably bring me to my knees begging to the god of Zantac for relief. Riddle me that.

6. I have no problem admitting that I'm scared of what life with two under two will resemble. I'm also not ashamed to admit that the reason we decided to have two children is plain and simple: we do not want three.

7. Of the 45 lbs I've gained so far this pregnancy, I'm approximating 30 lbs of it to be semi-sweet chocolate chips and cherry limeades from Sonic (and the plethora of Arby's roast beef sandwiches I survived on during the first trimester).

8. I am loved. Absolutely, positively and unconditionally. But understanding and embracing this took far more than the years I spent sitting in church, nodding my head in quiet agreement whenever John 3:16 popped up on a projector screen. I've heard this all my life but in truth, those words never stopped me from continuing to try to earn something that was already mine, or to try to be something that I wasn't. There are still plenty of days that I struggle to accept that I am good enough- that I am just enough. Especially on days that I lose my patience with Ella and raise my voice at her, when my "fat" jeans are the only pair that fit, when I find it easier to run the other way than press in and press on. But at the end of those days remain the things that anchor me- my family, my friends. A little bit of breathing space. Rest (albeit very little). A relentless hope that no matter how "bad" the day was, I get a clean slate the next day. Good, good things.

9. Yoga pants are the little black dresses of pregnancy. You simply can't have too many. (Yes, I'm still trying to figure out a way to rock them with a pair of stilettos).

10. I will lose the weight. (I often say this in a sort of repetitive chant to myself when I happen to catch a glimpse of my naked body in a mirror). And for the record, I'm well aware of the many wonderful benefits of breastmilk, but I have to say that my intentions to do it again are quite possibly more selfish than selfless. You better believe I'm counting on that extra 600 calorie/day metabolism. So bring on the lanolin, cracked nipples and engorgement. No pain, no gain. (Or loss, in this case).

11. My daughter is going to make a fabulous big sister. She already possesses a very "take-charge" attitude- great for bossing around little brothers- and it's also become increasingly clear that she doesn't take crap from anyone. One high pitched squeal and she goes right for the hair. (Seriously, where did she learn this?) Yes, it appears our little girl is more of a fighter than a lover at the moment, but we're told it's just a phase. In the meantime, I'm comforted to know that her strong-willed spirit will never render her a doormat for someone else to walk on, and if my suspicions are correct, she will be all too willing to stick up for her little brother. Attitude and spunk aside, she's an incredibly loving and affectionate little Bug and I'm excited to watch her make the transformation into "Big Sister."



30 days... (although this is one thing I don't know for sure. Maybe less?? Please?) ;-)

The Sound of Sleep...

This is day #2 that Ella has decided to sleep in. Usually, the term "sleeping in" is thrown around pretty loosely in our house. If I make it to 7:30 a.m., I feel like I've slept in (ah, long gone are the days where I hit the snooze button at 9:30 and rolled over for a few more minutes of uninterrupted bliss). My body has finally seemed to adjust to "toddler time" as well. On days when Ella is over at Jake's parents house, or she otherwise decides to randomly go past her usual 6:30-7:30 bracket, I'm usually awake or starting to stir around 6:45 or 7. Even given the opportunity to sleep in, my body just won't let me. Yay motherhood. ;-)

She went down at 7:30 last night, after a 3 hour nap from 2-5. It is now 9:35, and she's still going strong. I know, because I've already checked on her twice to make sure she's still, in fact, breathing. (Because part of motherhood requires you to rid yourself of any paranoia that something might be wrong before you can truly let yourself enjoy every last drop of your extra cup of coffee). Having rid myself of the worry (for now), I find it odd that I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. On the mornings she wakes me up early (or even at her usual time), I tend to sit in a glazed over state, holding my cup of coffee and thinking of all the things I could be doing if she were still asleep and yet when given the gift of time that is truly at *my* disposal, I drum my fingers on my coffee cup and peruse the internet and get antsy. What's up with that?

I could get a head start on a load of laundry, empty the dishwasher, hop on the treadmill for a quick powerwalk (if I'm feeling especially ambitious). Logically, I know there is a list a quarter-mile long that I could make of things that I *could* be doing. And while I'm always thankful to be given an extra few minutes of precious sleep (a commodity that will surely become even more rare and precious once Milo arrives), the truth is that my world wakes up and comes alive when she does. I wake up and immediately listen for her tiny, high pitched squeal and the sound of her musical seahorse and then eventually the dull thuds of all of her animals and books being chucked out of her crib. Something in me relaxes, even though I know that *my* time is over. No matter how tired and worn down I am from the previous days' antics, tantrums, nap-strikes, Sesame street songs and Elmo videos, jaunts in the yard, trips up and down the hall on my shoulders or driving in her cozy coupe, I am grateful for another day-another opportunity- to have my small world opened up by the tiny, curious hands of my daughter. My body might be unwilling and achy, but my heart is full and content. This is the reason I wake up. This, I have come to believe, is grace. ;-)

A God of Small Things

I laid on the exam table yesterday and prayed it would be over soon. The room was muggy and I hated having to lie flat on my back. I felt like I couldn't breathe. A by-product of my anxiety, plus the very real pressure of an enlarging uterus pushing up against my diaphragm and lungs. I eyed the door nervously, reached in my pocket for the reassurance of 2 little pills- one, Zofran and the other Xanax- and the barage of excuses I could use to make an escape pressed their way into my mind, before I even asked them to. I decided to split the Xanax in half in case I needed to take it, since it had been months since I needed one and I really didn't want to take it. Then, as if having it in my pocket wasn't close enough, I decided to hold it in between my thumb and forefinger.

I should have been excited to get my ultrasound, to have a chance to see Milo again. But more than anything, I just wanted out. I suddenly wished I had gone with my gut and declined the AFP test (alphafetoprotein) but instead, let the doctor talk me into having the extra peace of mind. If only it had really been that easy. The nurse called with my test results and said they were "slightly elevated." My risk assessment for having a baby with Spina Bifida rose from .5% to 1%. (Really?? You want me to come in for an extra ultrasound because there's a 99% chance that my baby is fine?) *insert eye roll here* I tried to put the worry of the tiny chance something was wrong out of my mind and instead, consoled myself with the fact that I would get more pictures of my little guy. But wait, I hate doctor's offices. I despise the sterile smell and the big equipment and the bland, oatmeal-colored walls and carpet and the fact that everyone talks in hushed voices. Talk about wanting to make an anxiety-prone person bolt for the door....DAMN them! Now I *had* to go back. I could have turned down the ultrasound, but then I would have had that 1% following me around for the rest of my pregnancy, painting scary images in my head. I knew that I had to put the worst case scenario out of my mind for good.

The lab tech came in and pressed the probe down on my belly, giving me a painful reminder of my full bladder and causing me to draw in a short, sharp breath. And there he was, this one-pound ball of flesh and bone, hiccup-ing and squirming around and otherwise, looking very content. I wondered, could he sense my tension? Could he feel that his Momma was scared? I took steady, deep breaths and focused on the perfection of his little silhouette. She took an extra long time looking at his spine and I started counting the discs and bones, (as if I knew what a perfect spine would look like if it came up and bit me). But at least, it took my mind off of my nerves. Despite having gone through pregnancy once before, I still found myself completely and utterly in awe that a whole entire body had been fused together inside of mine: the four chambers of his heart beating in perfect rhythm, the sections of his brain that had divided where they were supposed to, the curvature of his tiny spine, even the way he balled up his tiny fists and kept them close to his face. All of his tiny organs in place, continuing to grow and develop, but- as the tech reassured us- all working in perfect harmony with each other. I felt relief and gratitude wash over me. There were no obvious markers for Spina Bifida, just as we all had prayed. I momentarily wondered how on earth you could ever give someone news like that and suddenly I felt very grateful for my job as a piano teacher. I would never have to deliver devastating news like that.

But wait, we weren't done and the doctor would be back in to talk with us. What could this be about? Maybe just a follow-up? I groaned and flopped back on the table. My half-pill of Xanax had all but dissolved into a tiny speck in the clammy-ness of my fingers. I discreetly let the white powder and loose crumbles fall to the floor. The doctor came in, seeming very jovial, which put me at ease, and scanned over Milo's body while he asked us questions about what we did for a living. "I'm a piano teacher and my husband is a web-developer," I heard myself say, but I was distracted by the fact that he kept trying to zoom in to Milo's left hand. Come to think of it, the tech did the same thing. The doctor asked if Jake played any instruments too. The conversation faded as I studied the doctor's face. What was that he was counting? Oh God, please let everything be okay. They said everything was fine. Why was he concentrating like that?

Then, in a very matter-of-fact voice, he said "Well, he's stone cold normal, except that he only has 3 fingers and a thumb on his left hand. He's missing his pinky." As if he was telling me the weather forecast, or that the color of my shirt was light pink.

What??

Perhaps he missed the irony, but it wasn't lost on me: A piano teacher and a guitar player, having a baby with only 9 fingers. I thought, surely he was mistaken. Maybe it was just a bad angle, or a misplaced shadow. But no. He was, in his own words, 100% sure that Milo's left pinky was gone- most likely due to something called an "amniotic band," in which tissue wraps around a developing fetus's limbs or digits, creating a type of tourniquet by cutting off blood flow and ultimately resulting in a freaky kind of self-amputation.

I let it sink in for a minute. So our son wouldn't have a finger, and honestly, of all fingers- heck, of all body parts- to be missing when you're born- second only to your pinky toe- the pinky finger would be the one someone would miss the least, right? If we walked in worried about something as devastating as Spina Bifida and walked out minus one pinky, life was still good. Yes, life was still good. But the mommy in me struggled to accept a potential disability- no matter how small. A flood of questions and doubts entered my mind: Will he get picked on? Will he be embarrassed? Will he be able to throw a ball, play sports, play instruments, tie his shoes? I thought about how much I really use my pinky. I would obviously miss mine now, but he won't ever know the difference, so that makes it okay, right?

But it's not okay. I had to finally let myself admit it as I drove home. I felt ungrateful as the tears stung my eyes and fell silently onto my round belly. Of course, he was going to be a normal kid and live a good life if we had anything to do with it. He didn't have something devastating like a hole in his heart or a misplaced organ. His spine is perfect. He's beautiful and he's ours. But my conscience was heavy with a thought I wanted to destroy and never think again: He isn't as perfect as I wanted him to be. Not as perfect as he seemed before the doctor came in. And then, the harder pill for me to swallow came a few minutes later- that my idea of "perfection" is about as small as the box I try to make God fit inside. All I could think was that my son would be coming into this world at a small- however, instant- disadvantage, because not everything is where it should be. I wanted to mourn that little finger because it would be one less finger I get to kiss and hold when he's born. I have no doubt that I'll be too wrapped up in holding him and marveling at him once he gets here, but I don't- for one second- think that I won't want to wave a magic wand in the months and years down the road and make that pinky reappear for him, just so things might be that much easier, if only in a minuscule way. It seems so little. But I'm reminded that maybe that's what God wants me to see- that He's a God of the little things, just as much as He is a God of huge things. Perhaps this is a reminder that nothing is to ever be taken for granted, on any scale. The first time Milo drops a block into the shape sorter with his left hand, the first time he ties his shoes, the first song he learns on whatever instrument he chooses to play- they all become victories in a way they might never have been. Small things made spectacular. Or rather, spectacular things revealed to me in a brand new light, and one that asks me to throw my pre-conceived ideas out the window.


Milo isn't even here yet and already, he's teaching his Momma how to let go. I like this kid. <3

It's Not What You Think

I've put off writing about this topic because it's a tough one to even know how to articulate. I always try to find the humor in every day circumstances, but sometimes, there isn't any to be found. Musicians play, dancers dance, babies cry and writers write. Even when it hurts. Even when there's no clear way to end the words. As with anything in life, I've learned that it's about the process- and even more about the discipline- than it is the finished product, although the artist in me still strives for perfection every single time. And every single time, I will fall short. It happens.

There's a quote from a song I like that says, "Life perfect, ain't perfect if you don't know what the struggle's for." For four years, my struggle has been against anxiety. It's true that life wouldn't be nearly as precious to me now if I hadn't had to fight to find my identity and my own degree of normalcy since 2006. Since then, there has rarely been a day that I don't wake up on the front line of a continual war against- well, me. My own body. My racing mind. The subconscious circuit of lies and "what ifs" that are on constant replay. I liken it to being tuned into a bad radio station with a bunch of negative talk and static. Often, there is no volume knob or dial to tune into something different. Not too long ago, I had a painful realization that I had begun to accept this as "the way of life" from here on out. This revelation scared me more than the panic attacks themselves. But having already spent thousands of dollars on counseling, psychotherapy, and refills of Klonopin and Xanax (which, thankfully, I don't need to take anymore), I had begun to have expectations of little more than obtaining a mute button for my own back-stabbing mind. Realistically, I still don't expect the negative voice to go away. I can only hope to muffle it until one day, it just quits trying.

It's not what you think.

I don't need to go and sit in my car by myself and do deep breathing. But sometimes, it's the only way I feel safe. It may never have crossed your mind while standing in the Kroger check-out lane that you have. to. get. out. But I think it every single time I'm putting groceries on the belt. It takes everything I have in me to make myself stay because for so many years, I've trained my body to simply run.

It's not what you think.

I may try to look put together, but don't be fooled. Each time a panic attack hits, I turn into the woman who weighed 120 lbs and was a few steps away from being hospitalized. For a few minutes, I become the wife who almost lost her husband before she ever made it to her first anniversary because the stress was almost too much for either person to handle. People find it funny that I don't leave to take the trash out without a dab of concealer and some lip gloss (and it's true), but it's less because I'm a girly girl and more because I've learned to hide behind the makeup.


It's not what you think.

An introvert I may be, but I still want to hang out with my friends. But if I begin to feel anxious, I'll make up reasons to not be able to see them. I know I have a choice, but it never feels that way to me at the time.


It's not what you think.

Whatever excuse I gave you for needing to leave, it's probably a lie. Embarrassing as it is to admit, I've made a habit out of lying to the people I love so that this "thing" is never what they think it is. It's never the truth. Even when I know that the only person it truly hurts is me. Sometimes, I hope I'll start to believe the things that I make up because those realities seem easier to live with.

What is it about saying, "I'm scared" that's so hard? So many times I've wished I were afraid of heights or planes or spiders. I tell myself if I could only see it, just put my finger on it, I could kill it and move on.



But then I think, this thing that has a grip on me- perhaps it's not what I think it is either. Perhaps it's actually nothing but a bully, sucking all of it's energy and ego by preying on all my truths and twisting them around until they're unrecognizable. I watch my daughter's reaction when she doesn't get her way. Her face turns a reddish-purple, the inevitable high pitched wail that could peel the paint from the wall follows, something is usually thrown and then she crumples into a dramatic ball on the floor. A tantrum, in it's most classic form. (I can't wait for that to happen in Target one day). So it seems that my mind has become quite adept at throwing it's own tantrums, vying for my attention, which I've been all too willing to give it over the years.

It's not what you think.
"How will your daughter ever know what strength looks like if she always sees her mommy run?"
It's not what you think.
"And you thought you should have another baby? How will you be strong enough for them both?"
It's not what you think.
You're never safe.
It's not what you think.
The ending is already written. You can't change it.
It's not what you think.



Maybe, just maybe, It's not what I think, either.