Loving Yourself is a Revolutionary Act

In my previous life, before we moved to the country and I became a stay-at-home-mom, I was working 2 jobs while raising a toddler.

Working that much and always being on-the-go, my appearance and health came last. I was too tired to work out, and I didn't really care. I ate what was around. I was a nanny, wore yoga pants to work, and lived on carbs and lattes for sustenance and sanity. I gained a significant amount of weight, like ya do. Then I decided chopping off 23 inches of hair seemed like a fabulous idea to save time. And it was, until I was done with it. Out of nowhere, life got turned upside-down and we were quickly relocating for my husband's job. At this point, none of my clothes fit anymore and I was wearing hand-me-downs from my mom, stretchy pants and tee shirts while awkwardly growing out a pixie hair cut.

What a lovely time to move a new town and meet tons of new people, right? I felt like I looked (and smelled) my worst. Being super outgoing and determined to make new friends, I decided to power through and out I went post-pixie mullet, stretchy pants, and all

December 1st marked 4 months in our new town. In that time, I've been working out, eating better and willing my hair to grow. It's been a rough 4 months, because here's the thing: change apparently is super fucking hard and doesn't happen immediately. My hair still looks awkward and I've lost a fraction of the weight I thought I would have this point. I'm still fighting to find time to take care of my soul and mind, reading books having time to write. But here's what also happened: I've made new friends anyway.  I joined the YMCA, got involved in community programs, and started attending a Unitarian Church. I have new, amazing people in my life who don't see the list of things I see when I look at myself.

I used to think that loving myself as I am meant that I was good staying that way. I also thought that having goals to change things about myself meant that I couldn't really love and accept the way I am now. I thought making changes made self-love conditional. I could either accept myself and stay stagnant, or work to become a person that I could love. "I will love myself  WHEN..." I'll love myself when I lose weight,  when I become successful at my job, when my hair grows out,  when I learn how to be more appropriate, when I can finally get my shit together....WHEN WHEN WHEN. Because if I love myself NOW, that means that I am okay with all the things I want to change, right?

Here's what going through a giant life change in the midst of not really loving myself has taught me: I can love myself NOW and still work on growing and evolving. The important thing is that I don't hate myself in the process. If you wait to love yourself When, you don't believe you are deserving of love Now. If you don't believe you are deserving of love, then When will never come. Once you reach that goal, it won't be enough, because deep down you believe that you aren't enough. Another When will replace it. You (hopefully) wouldn't tell your child. "I will love you when you learn how to tie your shoes;" "I will love you when you act differently;" "I will love you when you get better grades." Earning love is a never-ending game, and it's damaging. It's your love for your child that helps them grow, that gives you patience, that helps you teach them, that makes them thrive.

We aren't any different as adults, we are still in process constantly. Chasing self-love with a to-do list of conditions only plunges us further into self-hatred. Loving and investing time and energy in ourselves, because we believe that we are worthy of love and effort, is what makes us grow and flourish into our best selves. We can make ourselves better not because we believe we are bad and must change, but because believe that we are good and deserve to love ourselves through our evolution.

Why I Needed to Forgive the Church to Find God

Pastor's Daughter. That label defined me for most of my life until I moved out of my parents' home, left the church, and actively worked on forming my own identity. 

My relationship with the church has always been a rocky one, full of both love and anger. As a child, my dad pastored small churches. We moved a lot. I was an awkward kid and the transitions were always difficult. When I was 10 years old, we moved to Indiana and my dad accepted a staff position at a church where we would remain at until I was 18. Some of the hardest and best years of my life happened while attending this church. When my parents accepted a new position at a church in Colorado, I stayed in Indiana and went to college, and left the church entirely. My struggles with the church did not stop there, though. 

As a kid, I remember church feeling forced. I tried hard to be good, confessing all my sins at alter calls when I was only a child. My parents didn't raise me to believe I was a sinner, but inside I knew I wasn't feeling the things I was "supposed" to. Once I entered the youth group, I pushed harder. We had a youth pastor who believed in "excellence" as Christians. We were expected to devote our lives and all our free time to the youth group. I signed right up and was on his leadership team. I was always "different" though. I questioned and searched, was loud and dressed different. My parents were supportive of my mild rebellion- as long as I went to church and believed as they did. I was teaching Sunday school, on the Praise Team, a youth group leader, and doing all I could to push my guilt and questions aside. I even chose to attend Christian school to try and "fix" myself. My self-expression came in my appearance, chopping off my hair and dressing in outrageous clothes. Despite my efforts to be a good Christian girl and conform, I was always leaking out. I went to alter calls and gave my testimony to alleviate my guilt and try to fit- to force my real self to line up with who I needed to be to be sanctified. 

Insecurity grew and grew. Christian school and the youth group became awful for me. It wasn't working. I didn't fit and my heart was breaking. I could not be like the others. I thought I had to be, but I couldn't stop being loud and rebellious, questioning and searching. I was bullied at Christian school and always in trouble. One day, after many days of tears, I couldn't take it anymore. I called my mom from a pay phone during lunch and, between sobs, told her I had to leave. The next week, I moved to public school. A week later, I was active in the school's theater department. It was a haven for insecure, searching, different teenagers. I had a talent for acting, and I found my tribe and was starting to be happy again. 

My relationship with the youth group and my close friends there continued to crumble. I began to thrive. I found others like me in the theater department. My differentness was normal to them. My depression stayed, and would for many years to come until I found therapy. But I was home with them for a time. 

As I did more and more plays at school, my lack of attendance at church was frowned upon by the youth pastor. He confronted my dad, and my dad rose to my defense. Theater was a possible career, and Wednesday night youth group was not. I will always be grateful to my parents for supporting me. I still had to go to church on Sundays, but I quit the praise team and Sunday school. I drove separate as soon as I could so I could leave directly after service and not talk to anyone. The youth group wasn't a place I wanted to be. I usually sat alone and sneaked out of service to go on walks around the neighborhood. 

With college came more struggles, my depression and anxiety could no longer be ignored. During high school my depression turned into an eating disorder that was still with me. Bad boyfriends played a role as well.  In the theater department, my professor said something to my acting class I will never forget: "All of you are hear to pursue a career where you pretend to be someone else. That's not normal. I encourage you all to go to therapy to figure out why you want to do this. You cannot deal with emotions of acting if you don't have your shit together." Well, a year in to the program, it became abundantly clear he was right. I was a mess. I wasn't sleeping, my weight was plummeting, I was turning to outside things to numb myself. I went to the school counseling center and quit acting.

 A lot of time was spent in therapy dealing with my anger at the church for my struggles and those of my parents, bad relationships with boys, and trying to reconcile my feelings of abandonment from God. 

 As I went through therapy I also searched other religions, I hated entering a church. I was still plagued by my own messy feelings. I did a lot of work to forgive. Eventually, I didn't feel the need to beg forgiveness for my true self at an alter. It was me that needed to do the forgiving. I had to release my own demons. I forgave the church, the youth pastor, the Christian school, my parents. I found my freedom and God within myself. This was one of the most difficult and freeing things I have ever done in my life.

My freedom came from the realization that I did not have to have labels. As I searched other religions, I realized it was more of the same things I was trying to leave in the Christian church. Every group had their own rules and books and names for God. I realized I did not believe in the Bible as the only word of God. That was incredibly freeing. I allowed myself to recognize God in things outside of the church, outside of any religion. I claimed my own rules, my own names for God, my own thoughts. I decided there was a reason it all felt forced to me. It didn't have to be. God accepts me without conditions, and no one religion has the answers for me. The answers are within me and waiting for me in life. I stopped trying to make myself fit an idea of God. God was there the whole time, in the people and experiences of my daily life. 

..........................................................

I wrote this piece two and a half years ago, sitting in the parking lot of the church of my childhood. Now, as Christmas approaches, all the traditions of my Christian childhood surround me. They bring me peace and comfort, remembering the happy times in church and with my family. At the same time, this piece has been on my mind, reminding me of what I came from and where I am now. I fought long and hard to find peace with God. Now is a time of gathering with families, where we are surrounded by people who may be very different from us. This holiday season is also filled with angst for many as our current political climate has brought all of our differences to surface. Now is a time for remembering that we are here because of where we came from. We must tell our stories from our hearts, and listen to others stories, to propel each of us to a place of understanding and our truest selves. It is important to move forward with honesty and without fear. 

Image Credit: Amazon 

Becoming a Grown-Ass Woman

I just turned 32. Yep, there it is. I'm 32. I'm in my thirties.

So why do I only feel like a grown-up some of the time? A good chunk of the time I still feel like that girl in high school, and sometimes it is genuinely weird to me that I am a homeowner, bill payer, a parent. (Not that those are the qualifications for being an adult, but one would think that with those things, I would feel like an adult all the time, right?) Someone put me in charge of maintaining a house, holding down a job, and growing another human into a productive member of society. Who the hell thought that was a good idea? Being an adult was supposed to feel way different, right?

Referring to myself as a "woman" feels weird, so grown up sounding. Michelle Obama is a woman. I'm just here trying to figure out how to adult today and how much coffee is needed for that. There are women not much older than me who I see as more "adult" than I am. Is it about age? Is it something else entirely? After all, I am THIRTY-TWO, now!

This snapped with me when I was shopping for a new outfit to wear out for my birthday (I know this sounds lame, but who knows how something will hit you). Whenever there is an occasion, I go out and get a new outfit that is fancier that anything else I wear, I feel awkward in it, and then it hangs in my closet. Every time an event like a wedding or birthday dinner comes up, I feel the need to dress up like someone I'm not. This year, I started to do that, then it hit me how silly that was. I should dress like myself, in something I love that I will wear again because it resembles me. Also, this is much more affordable, and who doesn't love that?

This simple act claiming who I am gave me one of those moments where I felt like an actual Grown-ass woman. That night, I went out with my best friend and our husbands, drank delicious martinis, ate steak, and declared that I am 32 and claiming it. Why should I be ashamed of becoming an adult?

All this got me seriously thinking about the women in my life and other women I admire, and what it was about these women that made me look up to them.

• They doesn't have time for other people's bullshit. They let others think and be what they may without playing in to their mess. 
• They don't harbor guilt, but simply apologize for what was their fault, and move forward.
• They are themselves, whatever that looks like. I don't know if anyone truly "doesn't care" what anyone thinks of them. But Grown-ass women care what they think of themselves MORE.
• They own their shit. It's okay if they are a mess, if  life is still a mess, if things are falling apart.  They are not habitually life's victim.
• They are impressive because they aren't out to impress. These women simply are, and that is what makes them intimidating.
• They embrace other women. They are strong together, seeing each other as necessary to survival, not as enemies or competition.  

These are things that I aspire to as a Grown-ass woman who is now thirty-two. I simply don't have the time or energy to keep living in the insecurities that I did in high school and college. It's exhausting, it keeps me trapped, it makes me feel bad about myself and my life. It's time to step up my Grown-ass woman game. When I was drinking martinis, eating steaks, being with the ones I love, dressing like myself, and declaring my thirty-two-ness, it felt amazing. I was free. I was a Grown-ass woman for that moment.

You've Set the Bar Too High, Pinterest

Pinterest is the most wonderful and terrible thing on the planet, and the inventors of Pinterest are internet freaking geniuses. Before Pinterest, I barely used the internet except for emails and Facebook. I had no idea what was out there. Suddenly, instructions on EVERYTHING are at my fingertips with beautiful pictures in well organized boards. Let's be honest. It's always been there. Pinterest is Pretty Google. You are Googling things and putting them into folders. It's just so much better.

Pinterest is single-handledly responsible for teaching me how to cook and opening me up to all the possibilities of Mason jars. I literally had no idea that Mason jars could in fact change my life. Not to mention, Pinterest has helped launch about a million bloggers who otherwise might never be found. There are things I never would have thought I could do if it weren't for Pinterest and all the amazing bloggers.

That's also the problem! You can go to Pinterest to learn how to do something, or to learn how to do that thing in the best possible way ever! Last week I simply wanted to learn how to roast the pumpkin seeds from our jack-o-latern. Not only did I learn how to do that, I learned 50 ways of making the best possible pumpkin seeds that your guests will die for. I bet you had no idea a damn pumpkin seed was so versatile.

No game has been more upped by Pinterest than parties. I am currently planning my daughter's third birthday, and of course, I turned to Pinterest for ideas on her chosen Pete the Cat theme. Once upon a time, when your kid had a birthday, you went to a party supply store and bought some balloons and plates in whatever theme, ordered a matching cake from the grocery store, and bought a veggie tray and some chips and salsa. Done. If this is you, don't ever change. Save yourself millions of dollars and hours.

Because now there is Pinterest to show you how to create everything you need for the perfect party of your dreams. Since your friends are on Pinterest, they also know what amazing things you could do for your party, because they are doing it all too. You can make your own adorable decorations out of upcycled old clothes, a custom sign out of your neighbors reclaimed pool deck, and serve all your food in stations out of various size jars. Gone are the pre-ordered cakes, you can learn how to make bakery style cakes with impeccable fondant, in the shape of your child! Why buy a Ninja Turtle balloon when you can make a life-size Ninja Turtle out of kiwi? Don't forget the ice cubes infused with herbs from your garden and lemonade from the lemons in your mini green house. Be sure to label all the refreshments with calligraphic signs written in your own glittery blood.

I am pretty crafty and I think that a lot of stuff like this is fun. I really do enjoy creating a special day for my daughter. And yep, I'll be getting some ideas from Pinterest.  I am, however, dialing it down a bit. In the long run, my kid isn't going to remember the hours I spent on the hand-made decorations, and I will likely regret all the hot glue gun burns and paper cuts acquired in the process. Who cares if a few of my guests snub their noses at my Party City plates and store-bought non-ogranic veggie tray (served in the plastic container it came in). Who invited those bitches anyway? Because what it is ACTUALLY about is celebrating my daughter, hanging out with friends, and eating lots of food. If you want to guarantee your child's party is a success, serve alcohol. Kids birthday parties can really suck for the adult guests who don't know each other if they must be completely sober.

Infertility and the Loss of Something You Never Had

Here I am again, laying on the couch, distracting myself with Friends and M&Ms while trying to ignore the cramps in my stomach and lower back that remind me that another baby may not be in the cards for us.

Infertility is a special kind of emptiness that is incredibly hard to explain to someone who has never been through it. It's a loss, but of something that was never actually there. It's not a tangible loss, not one that other people know how to deal with. It's the loss of the dream of something, the hope of something. An infertility diagnosis feels like something invisible being taken from your heart.

It was about 5 years ago when we were told by two doctors we had an incredibly small chance of having children. The doctors told us our test results and simply said "I'm so sorry." Those are words you never want to hear from a doctor. Not being candidates for invitro-fertilization, we were told we could try hormones but to not expect results and to consider adoption.

We were preparing for my husband's deployment to Afghanistan when we decided to go on Chlomid and try anyway. Pills, schedules, fights. There is nothing romantic about trying to have a baby in the midst of knowing you probably can't. Being told when to do it, how to do it, laying still with your pelvis tilted up for 20 minutes after. The Chlomid caused me to have mood swings and hot flashes. Then the waiting. Month after month of heartbreak. I eventually resented the pregnancy and ovulation tests because I felt like I was "failing" them.  Meanwhile, everyone was having babies or trying to be helpful. You want to be happy for your friends and their new babies, and you know your friends are trying to help.

When a friend announced she was pregnant, I had to try not to resent her. Being around pregnant women sucked terribly. Each baby shower, I found myself in tears on the way there and again on the way home. Usually while I was there I busied myself passing out cake or keeping the list of gifts. I remember spending birthday parties and family events finding somewhere quiet to go hold one of my friends babies and holding back my tears. Eventually I had to avoid social media to get away from the babies everywhere.

After being married for several years, people were asking questions. When would we have kids? What were we waiting for? What was wrong? Things that are none of anyone's damn business. The people who did know what we were dealing with tried to say the right thing. Most often, we were told stories of other people who faced infertility, to "trust God's perfect timing," or to "just relax." People loved us, and wanted to help. You simply cannot stop trying. It's impossible. The people who stopped trying didn't do it to relax, they did it because they gave up, there's a difference. That's the only way to really stop trying, to just be done and ready to move on with your lives.

That's what happened, we gave up. Then, we found out we were pregnant. We were lucky, very very lucky. Not because we finally did the right thing to get pregnant. Somehow it just happened. Many, many people out there have to wait for years and never get a baby. Somehow we won the fertility lottery. We were able to get pregnant within two years and have a baby with no complications. She's amazing, and we are grateful for her.

What I didn't expect was going through this again in a different way. Now all our friends are on their second baby, or third. We get questions living in a new town, "is she your only one?" and "do you want to have another?" We have to remind people we know what we went through to get her. Since we had one baby, we should be able to have another, right? We had a very small chance of getting pregnant, and no one wins the lottery twice. Some people who struggle with infertility get pregnant quickly with the second one. This won't be the case for us.

We are facing the choice of going down this road again, deciding if we want to go through the treatments, the schedules, the heartache. Last time, we ached for the dream of a child. This time, we know exactly what it means to be pregnant, to welcome a new life, to hold our tiny baby. We also know about the sleepless nights, days of worry, the toddler years. It's not just a question of if we want to go through the baby part again, it's the if we want to go through the pain it takes to get there knowing what we know now.

If you are in the midst of this struggle, you aren't alone. Thousands of us know the emptiness and heartache.  Infertility is the thing no one talks about because no one knows how. It's a grief many of us go through alone because it's incredibly private, yet everyone feels like it's their business. You may be feeling broken, hating your friends when you don't want to, avoiding family events, dreading the holidays with the babies, the questions. All I can tell you is that this is really, really hard. Hold on to your partner and leave Christmas dinner early if you have to. Skip the baby shower and mail a card, it's okay. I deeply wish I had other words for you, but please, do what you need to do to take care of yourself. Talk to loved ones, find a therapist (I did that, too), whatever it takes to have people who love you and get it in your corner.

If you love someone struggling, then you have no idea what the hell to say. If you are saying a lot of things, stop it right now. What was the most helpful was the friends who offered no advice, but who held my hand, who let me hold their babies without comment, and who helped me put my make up back on after crying at yet another baby shower. They didn't ask questions but were always there and saw me, drank wine with me, and stood by me.

Potty Training: The Actual Worst

I am of the general belief that babies are easier than toddlers, or at least a very different kind of hard. The first few months of parenting are a special kind of terrifying hell, but once you get through that, babies aren't too awfully difficult. They require most of your time and energy, but they are basically fussy, wiggly potatoes. Babies don't argue with you, throw things at you, tell you what to wear, and refuse to eat anything but Goldfish and apple sauce. Teething and sleep regression are a nightmare, but they pass after a couple weeks (hopefully). Snuggle that baby while you can, because soon it will be a talking, walking little ball of emotion. Picture a teenager trapped in tiny body with limited language. My daughter is bright and funny, and about the most pig headed little thing you ever saw, just like her Daddy. Fortunately, like him, she's generally charming enough to get away with it.

Enter Potty Training. My daughter has always been ahead of the curve, so I was pretty sure once she "got it," we would have this potty training thing down in days. That was SIX MONTHS ago. She acted excited and fully on board, so I took this as a sign of readiness. That first day, we broke out the stickers and sat on the potty over and over, she even peed in it. Half way through Day 2, she announced "I don't want to use the potty. Don't give me stickers. I want a diaper" and stuck to that with all her will. We put it off until after moving and getting settled in the new house. Time to try again. After a couple of days,  she was once again over it. The kid happily pees in her new panties, refuses any matter of treats, and could care less whether or not Big Girls, Elsa, or anyone else uses the potty. She will simply say "Elsa uses the potty, I wear diapers. I WANT A DIAPER! An actual diaper, Mom." (My daughter for real talks like this).

I decided not to make it a thing, but I kind of did anyway. Between nannying for 5 years then having a baby, I have been cleaning up poop that isn't my own for 7 years. If there will be a baby #2, I kind of need a break from shit before I commit to another 3+ years of it. Since my daughter and I are home most of the day, I put her in panties and told her she could sit on the potty if she wanted to. After a couple days of peeing herself, she figured out her signals and would ask for a diaper when she needed to pee. Instead, we sat on the potty, she didn't pee, and went happily back to playing. What didn't occur to me was that after a few days of not peeing all day, she could get a freaking UTI. Mother. Of. The Year. 

Before having kids, and even in the early days, I was one of those intolerable parenting experts. Now I get it. The Toddler Years have broken me down. (And we haven't hit three yet!) Sometimes as a parent you have no idea what the actual fuck you are doing. Your kid doesn't care about your preparations and research.  Then, once you get your kid figured out, they go and grow on you and turn in to a different person. You have to teach a tiny person how to do Person Things, like use a fork, zip a jacket, and poop in a receptacle. That tiny person will have their own ideas about how every bit of that will go. Since my daughter is clearly willing to hold pee to the point of pain for 8 hours, she can pee in the potty whenever she damn well chooses, or not...ever. I'll sit back and laugh when she explains her Depends to her boyfriend one day.

When I Need Forgiveness from My Kid

It started out with good intentions. On a rainy fall day, I thought it would be fun to bake and decorate sugar cookies with my three-year-old. Sure, they would be a little messy and have lots of rainbow sprinkles, but it would be charming and fun.

I have OCD and Anxiety Disorder.
(And even without those things, general parenting is super freaking hard.)
She's a strong-willed three-year-old.
You can see where this is going.

I really try to cook with her and let her help me with chores, I feel like it's important to let her learn these skills. But she's three, so she does things wrong. Like, a LOT. And she takes forever. Like toddlers do. Right, learning to be a person is hard. I get that. Most of the time I can keep my cool.

Today was NOT one of those days. It started out that way. She wanted to make her own crazy creation, and I let her play around. Then it came to that magical moment I pictured, when we would decorate the lovely, charming little cookies together. We could deliver them to friends, and I could Instagram it.

Of course, all my three year old wanted to do was eat cookies, lick the frosting, and down handfuls of sprinkles. Things were straying from the plan. After she ate a couple cookies and too many sprinkles, it was time for our serious fun decorating. After asking her to stop eating everything over and over, then insisting that she stop or she couldn't help, I started to lose my shit.

She got sick of it, saying "No! No, Mommy! Stop, or you will have a time out!"
I didn't stop. I kept on saying over and over loudly "You don't get to help if you can't listen. Stop eating it all!"
To which she kept saying "Mommy, I said stop or you will have a time out! Stop, stop, stop!"
Switch tactics, then. I lowered my voice and kept saying the same thing, but I still didn't just stop.
She got kicked out of the kitchen, tears streaming down her face, and I stood there decorating cookies alone, which was super depressing.

I started thinking... maybe she wasn't wrong. Here she was, telling me to do exactly what I tell her to do when she loses control: stop talking and take a time out. So I did. I gave us each a break.

While eating cookies by myself, I realized that I was the one who ruined cookie time with expectations that weren't appropriate for a toddler who had a 7:30AM doctor appointment and no nap. I probably couldn't expect a toddler who is learning self-control to stand in front of cookies, frosting, and sprinkles and just decorate. I mean, I was sneaking eating dough, licking the frosting, and had already had a few cookies, too. Could I salvage this? If I really believe that kids learn best by modeling behavior, I should start there. I certainly hadn't listed or respected her.

So, I sat down with her, tears forming in my eyes, and said "baby, I am sorry I yelled at you and didn't listen to you."  Yes, she had made my frustrated, and part of me wanted to add "but you...," I stopped myself. I didn't try to justify what I did to make myself feel better.

"Do you forgive me?"
"I forgive you, Mommy."

I asked if she wanted to try decorating cookies again. This resulted in her trying to eat more cookies. I still stood firm to my boundary that she had had enough, but I didn't expect her to perform the way I wanted her to and I didn't lose it, She didn't freaking care about decorating cookies and happily went and played while I finished.

Did my daughter learn how to decorate cookies? No. But maybe she learned how to apologize. Little kids seem amazingly good at forgiveness on their own. What I learned may have been even more important.

Let me tell you, there are few things more humbling than admitting to my own tiny little child that I did something wrong, and admitting to myself that I hurt her feelings. But afterwards, I think both our hearts felt a lot better.

Secret's Out: Marriage Can Suck

Alright guys, I am going to write about marriage. Not because I am an expert, because I have the remotest advice, or because I have any answers. I am going to write about marriage because I am married, marriage is hard, and we need to talk about the fact that it is harder than we all expected it to be. We don't have to wait until we are old and our marriage is a "success," or until we have been divorced and our marriage has "failed" to talk about marriage. One of my favorite authors Glennon Doyle Melton says we need to talk about things "during the during." So, I am going to go balls out and do that.

"During the during" is probably the hardest time to open up. During when we are most vulnerable and, in the case of marriage or relationships, there are other people to protect. But here's what' I've noticed. My husband and I and most people we hang out with are 4-8ish years in to a marriage or committed relationship, have small kids, and talk about how hard it is to have kids, only touching on a recent fight we may have had with our spouse in a funny story. The kids are easy to talk about. We are all struggling with parenting and there's not that sense of betrayal when talking about the kids. Writing about parenting is easy. Writing about the hard days of parenting is harder. Writing about marriage feels terrifying. I am not here to betray my spouse or throw him under the bus. I'm not here to air our dirty laundry.

What I am here to do is tell the truth, because it's happened multiple times now. We hang out with other couples, joke about the kids, have a few drinks and talk about parenting and home improvement. Suddenly, one of those couples is divorced and we are all like "what the hell?" Then my husband and I have another fight a few days later, and we kind of know what could get us there. We wonder if someday that will be us. Divorce isn't something we want,  but it's something that is happening to a LOT of our friends who don't want it, either. My husband and I know that just like getting hit by a bus, we aren't immune. If we don't want hit by a bus too, it's time to start looking both ways before we cross the street.

I am not here to vilify marriage OR divorce.  If you are and older Millenial (late 20-early 30s) then you parents are Baby Boomers and they grew up in a time when divorce was riddled with shame, secrecy and blame. Divorce was more common among our Boomer parents, but was often still an indicator of "failure" and surrounded by shame. We are living in a time when the divorce rate is sitting comfortably at 50%. It sounds about right since at 32, I can name about half of my friends who are divorced. I am my husband's second wife. Many of my friends are on second marriages. An increasing number of my friends are choosing not to get married, and while their parents don't get it, their friends totally get it. Marriages and relationships end, each for different reasons, and I don't have the secret for a lasting marriage. What I do know is that divorce does not equate failure, and some marriages and relationships need to end, to be complete and final so both people can  move on. Some marriages don't have to end, there's things that can be worked out. Each couple has to decide that for themselves.

Everyone told us that marriage was going to be hard. And we were like "yeah, we TOTALLY see why it was hard for YOU. But look how much WE LOVE EACH OTHER!" HA! What young idiots we were. There is a reason that marriage vows say "for better or worse...until death do you part." The people who wrote it knew that shit was NECESSARY. I could pretty much write a book on all the things that we have been through that we weren't prepared for: deployment, moving, infertility, a kid, jobs, stress, money. Through it all, we have fought and cried, made love and thrown things, held hands and slammed doors, held each other tight and wanted out.

In a committed relationship, you are doing life with another person, a person who knows every bit of you. I mean KNOWS YOU. My husband knows what I look like when I REALLY cry, he has cleaned my diarrhea and vomit off the entire bathroom when I was sick, he's seen my body push out a bloody little human, he knows what my farts smell like, he knows my secrets. He's the one I go to. I'm the one he goes to. I've watched my husband brush his teeth, sleep, seen his anger and heart ache, his smiles and tears. I know when he's not telling me things and why that's okay. We have had the hardest conversations we have ever had with another person with each other. My husband and I are also both super passionate people. We each have two states: calm and losing our shit. He gets mad, I act like the world is ending. When you put two firecrackers together with that level of intimacy, it can be amazingly exciting or a flat out shit storm.

And here we are, DURING THE DURING. In the midst of a marriage. But is it a "hard marriage" or just "marriage?" Honestly, my friends and I don't talk about how HARD marriage is, so I don't have any way to gauge it. I think that's one big reason we should talk about it with other people we love and trust. We should share with others without blame, without vilifying, without throwing each other under the bus. Our partners are our partners. That means we keep each other's secrets and we tell each other how we are feeling. But that doesn't mean we need to pretend to our best friends or family that it's all fine, like we don't feel really lonely sometimes despite having someone to share it all with. There will be fights, there will be make-ups. For some, there will be divorce, for others not. I do think if we pretend like everything is fine, it will all be a lot less fine.

Marriage is hard, guys. Parenting is hard. This shit is sometimes absolutely terrible. Let's not just pretend like it's all sunshine and fucking roses. Let's be real with those we love and who care about our relationships and start talking about it during the during instead of just the before or the after.

THAT Woman at the Gym

In the last year I have put on some weight. We all do, it happens. I'm trying not to let it stress me out. I started exercising and stopped eating entire boxes of Triscuits. Since we moved to a new town and I am a social little butterfly, I joined our county's little YMCA so I can do Zumba and make friends. I also started doing Jillian Michael's DVDs. I've always leaned towards the fun dancey classes or extreme scary classes. If I am going to work out, I either need to be having lots of fun with a group for accountability, or have someone yelling at me and trying to kill me. It's one extreme or the other or I will just quit. Put me on a treadmill and I will promptly get off out of boredom and lack of discipline.

The first few weeks of Zumba were awkward trying to get the steps down. I've never been great at shaking my ass (not for lack of ass but for lack of coordination). My old gym in the burbs was huge with tiny people in expensive outfits, so I love our Y where everyone seems to be my age or older and about my pace. There's usually less than 20 in my class and everyone is super sweet.

After a month in Zumba, I am pretty sure I am killing it. I have the moves down, I can shake and do the turns, and I'm rocking my neon Danskin work out clothes from Walmart. The year I spent in junior varsity show choir is clearly paying off. I have even moved out of the back row.

Then, she shows up. We all know who SHE is. Beautiful, wearing tiny shorts, skinny and toned. Cellulite takes one look at her and runs. She can jump higher, shake it better, squat lower, and looks sexy when she sweats. What does she do to look like that? Clearly I am not working hard enough. There must be secret rooms in gyms where the really fit people can nap, drink energy drinks and protein shakes and just never have to leave. How can I gain access to this room?. I start messing up moves, I am aware of every jiggle, I avoid my reflection, and I can only think about her.

Just like that, she stole my Zumba vibe. I'm not having fun, I keep tripping because I am glancing at her. I'm thinking about what she must be doing.

Of course, she wasn't the problem. I am pretty sure she wasn't like "hey, I am going to go be awesome in here for a while to make people feel bad about themselves." The problem was me. I was having an awesome time until I gave in to MY insecurities. She's probably a lovely person. It doesn't matter that she looks different than me. Comparing myself to this stranger, I allowed myself to ruin my own night. I stole my own confidence. I stole my own Zumba vibe.

When a new woman walks in to the room, she is the enemy until we can find something wrong with her. The skinnier, prettier, and more she appears to have her shit together, the worse she must be. After focusing on how much better she was than me, my next instinct was to speculate what could be wrong with her to make her less intimidating. Let me tell you, this is bullshit. This hurts us all, this keeps us down. This keeps us separate.

I decided I wasn't going to let my own issues with my weight, body and post-pixie mullet stop me. Comparing myself to her did NOTHING for me but make me hate her and hate myself for the entire class. It was completely pointless. Comparison and self doubt take an enormous amount of energy and time commitment. So what is she is not only pretty and fit but also happens to be successful AND nice? Good for her.

I decided my future Zumba classes were going to be for me. I wasn't going to look at anyone else. I moved myself to the front row so I could focus on getting the steps down and not be able to see anyone else. There was just me, cha-cha-ing to Pit Bull. Putting on a smile, I thought only about feeling good and dancing. I talked to other people after. It was an amazing time and left feeling exhilarated.

There's always going to be someone better than me. There are better writers, better Zumba-ers, usually better dressers. Who cares? I do not need to be them, I don't need to hate them or compare myself to them for motivation.

Someone else being themselves doesn't make me less me.
One thing I know I can do well is rock the shit out of being myself.

City Girl Apparently Going Country

My toddler daughter and I are home after almost a week in "the big city" staying with the three kids I nannied full time for five years. Their parents were at a conference, so I jumped at the opportunity to see the kids again, be in my old stomping grounds, and earn some extra money (since apparently you don't get paid for working as a Stay at Home Mom).

Having only lived in our little slice of the country outside a teensy town for less than two months, I was totally unprepared for how much this already changed me. My former nanny family lives in affluent suburb and are professionals with three kids. Each kid loves all their activities and they are an on-the-go family. My husband and I just moved from a close-by up and coming suburb.

We have spent the last two months loving our new home in the country but feeling like outsiders and dealing with unexpected adjustments. Living close to Indianapolis, we had our pick of just about anything to eat, every store, and countless parks and activities. I worked full time, and we were always busy. Our new town has one park and six restaurants, including McDonald's and Pizza King. People here are astonished when they learn we left such a blossoming area to live here, and sometimes (like when we are trying to where to eat) we are too. Having two grocery stores and nothing close to a Trader Joe's, there's no exotic items on our home menu (or even white cheddar, which apparently I was ridiculous for requesting at the deli counter). I get antsy at home and I still like to keep busy and talk to people, finding a reason to leave the house or work on a project every day. On top of seeing my nanny kids, I was pumped to be within reasonable driving distance of Starbucks (where I went daily) and have our choice of parks and restaurants, even a book store!

I was craving being in the city again for longer than a quick afternoon, and the hectic schedule of three kids in sports was something I could easily manage and was used to. What I wasn't expecting was the electric current of anxiety, the fast thoughts, the tightness in my chest, the tense muscles. I came home feeling emotionally drained, and it has taken me a bit to figure out why.

After 6 days of traffic, crowds, and noise, I began to feel over stimulated and anxious, I didn't expect to be ready to come back to our land in the middle of corn fields and tiny town. I was ready to give up my daily PSL for coffee on my back porch staring at fields and trade the errands for afternoons writing and staying home. The further we drove from city on the way home, the more I filled with peace.

There are moments since we moved to the country that I feel something that has always been rare to me: clarity. I don't mean simply clear thinking, I mean clear, unmuddled being. It has happened several times: when talking with a new friend, pulling in to our drive way and seeing our home, driving through the fields, walking through town, staring at the farmland from our deck in the evening.  These are moments that I mark and savor, because they are completely new to me. As someone diagnosed with Anxiety Disorder, the current of electricity running through my bones, scattered thoughts, tightness in my chest and tense muscles have been part of me for as long as I can remember. Here, it slows, and sometimes stops entirely. I have moments of pure clarity and peace that clear my mind and wash over my whole body. While my anxiety will likely always be with me (and I don't think moving to the country is the answer for everyone), this has been a welcome and unexpected change. Life here is slower, simple, and quiet.

I am so grateful for our time in the city and seeing the kids, and my daughter had a blast. But I know now that is no longer my home, and while small-town country life continues to be a big adjustment, it's what I need.


(photo credit: theodessyonline.com)

Mommy, I Need You

For the first two and a half years of my daughter's life, I worked full time, as well as a work from home job, averaging anywhere from 45-60 hours a week. I did this on top of (attempting) to keep up with the house and the general work of parenting. Most of the time I felt like I was dropping the ball somewhere.

Now, for the first time ever, I am not working. So why do I still feel like I can't keep up? Why do I feel just as tired? Why are there still dirty dishes, piles of laundry, and cup after cup of coffee? Why on earth are there times when I am still dropping the ball?

Needing.

The someone needing me doesn't stop, and it can be absolutely exhausting.

Just saying those words, putting them out there, fills me with guilt. I already feel guilty for being tired today, for not playing with my daughter the million times she has asked, for writing right now, for not working,

When my daughter was a baby, she cried. When she was a toddler, she yelled. Now at 3, she has upped her game and I actually hear the words "Mommy, I need you" all. the. time. A tiny person needs you for everything...feeding, pottying, playing, support, learning, sleeping, buckling, holding, carrying, cleaning, bathing...it gets damn exhausting.

I know one day she will not need me any more, and I know I will miss this. But will I really miss all of it? Will I miss cleaning up poop, getting snack after snack, waking up with a foot in my face, leaving the season finale of my favorite show to put her back to bed AGAIN,  making up a reason penguin crackers are better than fish crackers, being peed on? Not to mention the fact that three year olds are completely insane. I know that I won't miss it all. While sometimes I long for the days my daughter was a sweet, squishy little newborn, I  certainly don't miss all the newborn stuff. Never once have I said "Man, I wish I could cry while I marathon nurse after not sleeping for 36 hours, mastitis rocked."

There are countless things I will miss about my daughter being little: the snuggles, hugs, playing, the special bond that we share. But the truth is, it is hard when they are little, and I won't miss all of it. One day she will walk out the door to meet her friends without saying goodbye, and it will break my heart. At the same time I will be glad she didn't wake me up in the middle of the night to show me her booger.

The ins and outs of parenting are filled with feelings of fullness and failure, amazing moments and terrible moments. Some days I feel like super mom, and other days I turn on another damn Max & Ruby so the needing stops for a minute and I can disconnect to save my sanity. Most days, I love staying home and the time we are sharing. Some days I loose my shit, cry into my cold coffee, and we eat goldfish and cheese sticks for lunch on the dog-fur covered floor, still wearing pajamas.

Here's the thing: I can't stop from feeling this way, so I might as well let myself feel it and move on. It doesn't make me a bad mom, a bad wife, or the worst person ever. It makes me human. No person can meet all the needs all the time.

Mom guilt sucks, none of us need it, and it's not making any of us better moms for feeling like shit about having bad moments, bad days, or bad weeks. These days won't last.

It is okay to resent being needed sometimes
It is okay to hide sometimes
It is okay to be tired...all the time

It is perfectly okay to rest, escape, drink coffee, not shower, go out with your friends, go out with your spouse, take meds, take a class, read a book, go for a run, work, not work, sleep in, or do whatever you need to do to feel happy and okay. If I am going to be a good mom, I have to take care of myself, too. I need me and I need others. We have needs to, and we have to make sure our needs are met.

You Can Pry My Yoga Pants Off My Cold, Dead Body

Moms get a lot of heat for living in yoga pants and leggings. But let me tell you, there is a reason yoga pants are the best things in the entire world.

I personally have several levels of yoga pants:

• Level  1: Sleeping and Lounging Yoga Pants. Loose fitting and generally worn from 8PM-8AM.
• Level 2: Daytime House Yoga Pants. Tighter fitting, retired and worn, suitable for working around the house (or simply not leaving).
• Level 3: Exercise Yoga Pants (This is a new level for me). New with pretty neon swirls and are for actual exercise. They are then worn the rest of the day so everyone knows I have exercised, and because I don't always have time to shower.
• Level 4: Public Yoga Pants. Newest pair that goes with everything while making my ass look great.
• Level 5: Leggings. When yoga pants aren't appropriate and I need to look cute, leggings are pretty and class it up a bit with a nicer shirt. Level 5 is interchangeable with Level 4 when my yoga pants are just too boring. 

Most days, I level up throughout the day depending on our activities. I decided to put on some "real" pants yesterday. I have no idea what the hell I was thinking. I tried to squat and bend and I had no range of motion! All I could think was "GET MY LEGS OUT OF PANTS JAIL!! WHY DO PEOPLE WEAR THESE??" 

This got me thinking about something I hear all the time: Why can't moms just dress like a normal people and wear real pants instead of yoga pants?  Are we just lazy? NOPE. Here's why: BECAUSE WE AREN'T NORMAL PEOPLE WITH NORMAL JOBS. Being home with kids, like any other job, requires work clothes. Parenting work requires specific attire that provides flexibility, full range of motion, easy clean up, and comfort so you can do any of the following: 

• Rescue your kid from the inside of the biggest twisty tube slide at the park
• Sit on the hard bathroom floor for 30 minutes reading stories out loud while waiting for someone else to poop.
• Fold the same load of laundry 3 times.
• Lay on the bedroom floor singing the same song 500 times 
• Get up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down from the floor.
• Get drenched while you aren't even the one actually in the bath tub. 
• Use a baby wipe to clean breast milk, poop, play dough, and unidentifiable green shit off said pants before the cable guy shows up 3 hours late
• Unload a stroller, snacks, a diaper bag, toys (oh, and kids) from the car countless times a day, not to mention groceries or whatever else you have acquired.
• Crawl around on the floor being a puppy, cat, bunny, dragon....
• Attempt to do an exercise dvd while your child climbs all over you, then gives up and cries on the couch until your done.
• Spontaneous dance parties. 
• Pull up pants quickly before your toddler opens the bathroom door in public
• Hide in the closet with your coffee (or wine) and phone
• Sit on the couch with your baby on your chest for hours because if you move they will wake up and the rest of your day is ruined. 
• Clean and clean and clean, then clean all those things again. 
• Get ready in 5 minutes with a toddler destroying the house and a newborn crying.
• Actual yoga (yeah, right)
• Lots of snuggles and playing

Everyone has work clothes, and these are mine, and I will rock them proudly every day because it's an absolute necessity for my real job. My legs hate pants jail, I won't send them back. 

Why I am a Hot Mess Mama, and Why I Embrace It

Welcome to my new blog. Third time is a charm, right?

I wrote my first blog was about being a Navy wife facing deployment. My next blog was when I was a new mom and thought (like many of us do rounding out that first year) that I was a child expert sent to rain down knowledge.

This blog is an acknowledgement of the fact that I am a hot mess. I don't have all the answers, and I am embarking on a new life style in a new town.

Fit Mom, Crunchy Mom, Over Achiever Mom, Church Mom, Mean Mom, Sanctimommy, Free Range Mom...check your box, right?

Those titles used to make me feel super comfy. I wanted to find where I fit and know that I fit there, and make sure everyone else knew where I fit too. But now I fully believe if there was a Group called "I Don't Really Know What the Fuck I Am Doing, Don't Judge Me" that a lot of us go there (only of course after creating a fake Facebook account to make sure non of the moms from the park recognize us).

"Hot Mess Mama" is the best way sum up this phase of my mom journey. We just went through the worst relocation in human history for my husband's new job, we are settling in a new town where I know NO ONE and now do not work for the first time ever. My little girl is almost three (and has turned in to a completely different person). To top if off,  I gained 20lbs during our move and decided to grow out my pixie cut. Let me tell you, it's really awesome making all new friends wearing the same two pairs of yoga pants every day and rocking a stellar mullet.

Despite all that, I am throwing myself out there in every possible way because this is the life we want, and I live for the craziness of it.  Land, staying home with my kid, simplicity, a fresh start: this is it. Fortunately yoga pants are the staple mom uniform and I am not the only person in town with a mullet.

This is our new life. I am going to learn how to put food that I grow into cans despite never having kept a house plant alive. I am going to finally pursue working from home on things that I love. I am going to convince my husband that an acre is completely suitable for a small, adorable llama farm...

I am going to ditch all the bullshit and embrace the Hot Mess that I am while I figure it all out....and I am going to share it with you.

Sounds fun, right?