Election Day: Life as We Know It

I fell asleep long before the results were in and didn't wake until my husband came to bed. I immediately knew who won. I could hear it in his steps. 

As my kids got ready for bed, my oldest son kept anxiously asking me, "Will you tell me who won in the morning?" "Of course!" I kept saying back to him. Of course I would tell him. I was actually pretty excited about waking up the morning of my 30th birthday and being able to say to my kids, "Guess what? History was made last night!" 

Now it's 3:09 a.m. 

I am not looking forward to my son's expectant face, asking me who won. Because how do I explain it?

This election has been intense. It's not been the typical Republican vs. Democrat dance. It's felt more like tug-of-war between acceptance and rejection. Most people probably don't see themselves as extremists, but I think we've all felt rather extreme feelings this time around. 

I'm not trying to be dramatic. I know the world isn't ending. But the thing is, for a lot of people, the world as we know it is threatening to end. And while we don't know exactly what that will look like yet, there is legitimate fear to be had. We have elected a man that has made my eight-year-old son anxious about an election he can't understand, because though he can't see yet how it will impact him, he is worried for his friends and their families. 

The truth is, I worry less about Trump and his disgusting nature than I do about the people who put him where he is. 

I hear a lot of racist, misogynistic, and prejudice crap in my life. I live in the south, it comes with the territory. I've often had the desire to move because I don't want my kids growing up thinking that that way of thinking is normal or acceptable in any way. However, this election has brought light to the state of our nation in a way I didn't think was possible. How can it be? This home of the brave, land of the free? Where opportunity abounds for all? How can there be people cheering for a man who objectifies, demoralizes, and ostracizes anyone who is unlike himself? How am I supposed to explain to my son that this is the man our country sees as fit to lead us? 

Because we won't just be explaining to our children that they can be unbearably crass, disrespectful, hateful, and indulgent and still rise to the top. We'll be telling them that that's what it takes to win. 

I have my issues with Hillary (don't we all?), but her supporters have given me hope. So I am sad, but I am not hopeless. The outrageousness of this election has sparked a flame that only promises to continue to burn brighter. I'm currently reading the words of men and women who instead of hanging up their pantsuits to collapse in defeat and depression, are rising up to encourage one another. Instead of retaliating with hate, they are linking arms, forming bonds, creating connections. They are holding onto the hope that together we can make big changes. That regardless of who our country calls commander and chief, our loyalty is to each other. 

So that's what I will be telling my kids when they wake up. 

Our dream is not to build walls, but break them down. Our goal is not to win, but to rise above. 

Why Trump's Words are Not a Distraction from Real Issues

Growing up I wished I was a boy. They seemed to have it so much easier. Their advantages were simple when I was young. They could pee without completely exposing themselves, they could walk around in their underwear without shame and sit with their legs comfortably open. Boys were not only allowed, but expected, to take off their shirts when they were hot, whereas I couldn't wear tank tops with straps too thin and I had to raise my arms before leaving the house to ensure I wouldn't expose my stomach by accident while moving about. I had to search with great effort to find shorts that reached my finger tips and jeans that didn't hug my butt and thighs too tight but would still fit my waist (not an easy feat!). It's not that my parents and schools were being intentionally evil and restricting, they made these rules to protect us girls. Because girls don't grow up just being girls. We grow up as targets. 

From a very young age it became clear that my body was a defining feature of my value. Anyone and everyone could have an opinion about it that was more valued than my own. Boys teased me for being flat chested, not being allowed to shave my legs, and for getting red-faced when I was hot. When my body developed I had to constantly battle fashion to find something between "frumpy" and "slutty". When I walked in public I was always aware of every part of my body. Why? Because it had all been commented on at one point or another, not just by men I knew, but by acquaintances and strangers. 

I didn't know that I had experienced sexual harassment until I took a Human Sexuality course in college and realized that's what that was called when men made crude comments and touched me inappropriately. I mean, I knew it was wrong, I knew it didn't feel right, but I was also unintentionally taught that it was my fault. I was in the wrong place, I was around the wrong people, I was wearing the wrong thing. I was a girl in a man's world. 

When a man followed a friend and me around a store with his hand down his pants, I was asked what I was wearing to cause him to do that. When a loved one was sexually assaulted, she was reprimanded for putting herself in that situation by some and slut-shamed by others, while the guy responsible was left unquestioned. If I voiced disapproval for unwanted advances or comments I was told I should feel complimented. That or labeled a "bitch." I was angry, but because I was either laughed at or shrugged off when I spoke out, I felt helpless. 

I know so many wholesome guys who sit back silently while they listen to other men spew degrading, crude, and misogynistic garbage. I've asked why they don't say anything to try to stop it. Why not say out loud, This is disgusting and I'm not going to listen to it anymore. The answer is always the same, "It's not going to change anything." 

I refuse to believe that. 

Women are taking a stand. We aren't politely ignoring things anymore. Men, I challenge you to do the same. This is not just a woman's fight. This is a human fight. Remaining silent is a big part of the problem. That's why Trump's words (that were not just words, but also confessions of sexual assault), especially as a potential leader of our country, should not be shrugged off as "locker room banter" or forgotten with a half-assed apology. If the savage rape by Brock Turner that resulted in an embarrassing excuse for justice has taught us anything, it's that we can't afford to continue to set an example of apathy toward the value of women. Our daughters deserve more. Our sons deserve more. We deserve more. Don't sell yourself short.

Nothing You Say Can Fix Your Depressed Friend

"You know how you can be having a good day, everything is fine, nothing about life hurts too much, people annoy you but not in an unbearable way. And then suddenly, in a single instant that comes from and out of nothing and nowhere in particular, just while you bend over to pick up someone's lunch order from behind the desk, it's all gone. You're just left feeling hollow and your mind is separate from your body so while maybe you go through the motions, joke with a coworker, smile and greet people, issue badges but you're just watching yourself do those things. And it's more of a feeling than a thought but if it was a thought it would something like: life is incomprehensible and so fucking long. I do so many things to keep living and I enjoy so few of them and I enjoy living even less."

This is the beginning of an email from a friend of mine. I asked if I could share it because this particular email described depression better than most clinical articles. The hardest part about depression is that there is this idea you can conquer it, or at the very least control it. The truth is, you can only try. But at any moment it can sneak up on you and swallow you whole before you've even glimpsed a warning sign. There are good periods when it seems to be in a safe, distant coma. And there are periods where you feel some semblance of control, you are doing all the things you know how in order to keep the monster at bay, and it feels like it's working. It's tempting to feel in control and maybe even feel accomplished. People who don't understand the disease are proud of you, they think you've gotten your demon in the bag, and they are glad for you to be able to move on with your life. These people get terribly disappointed when the good times don't last. They start to wonder if you really want healing and they start to take it personally when you don't get better on the timeline they deem healthy. People who know depression, on the other hand, are happy for you, not because they think you've found a solution, but because they know those breaks are what save your life. 

"There is no point. Even if God and heaven and religion were real to me, there would be no point even on a conceptual level."

The above sentence could be the beginning of an entire book. When you want to give up on life, people want you to pray, trust in God, read the Bible, go to Church and prayer meetings. They want you to do these things because they want you to experience hope. The unofficial definition of depression is the inability to have hope. You don't just "not feel it." Hope ceases to exist. The word is meaningless. Life is meaningless.

"Sometimes I watch people around me and try to study them. How and why do they keep going? Who else is a hollow puppet just acting of memory that's drawn from rote memorization of how it should look to be a human in the world?

Sometimes the fact that tomorrow will be here and I'll have to go through another day with no mysteriously provided purpose showing up in the night is so overwhelming that I don't even have to think beyond it to next week or month or year to stop my breath and make my heart beat erratically.

I fake everything. I have no future in any of the meager skills and experience I have. I can't even find a reason to continue in my writing. What's the point? What's the difference between someone else reading what I've written and no one ever reading it?"

We who know depression, know how to fake life when we can't summon the desire to live it. It's how we survive. It's easy to think that a person is depressed because of their life. The way they describe it to you might make you think, "Well do something about it! Just change this and that and then your outlook will change!" I could have told my friend to put her efforts into learning useful skills, find a job that will lead her in the direction she wants to go. I could have told her to use her dissatisfaction to change her life for the better. But guess what? You would never have guessed it from her description of her life, but she is actually highly educated, one of the smartest people I know. She is extremely skilled and hard working. She is disciplined and self-controlled. When she is healthy. Discipline and self-control are hard to hold on to when you lose the desire to live. That's the thing about depression and why it can lead to death. Even if you don't want to end your life, the desire to live is sucked out of you. 

 

"It's slightly better, being at home. But still that nagging question of why? why anything at all? the desire to burn bridges spectacularly. (I'd be the type to set fire to my former place of employment and everyone would say, but she seemed so quiet and sweet and innocent. that's what you get for calling me sweet mother fuckers! ha! okay not really something I would do or even really contemplate because empathy. fuuuuuuck it.)"

There are periods in depression when all you can really feel is anger. This anger makes you pull away from people, turn inward, and fight all the nonexistent battles that rumble through your brain. You feel like people are judging you, so you judge them harder. For me, this anger often turns into self-hatred. Because I'm the real monster. I am everything that is wrong in the world. Me, me, me. We can think about people only in the way it relates to ourselves, because  depression turns you inward until you can't see anything else but this twisted reality that is nothing but a big ugly picture of yourself. People often think they can save you from this by trying to get you to think about others. Think about the people who have it so much worse than you! Think about the people you are hurting! Think about all the people! Needless to say, this doesn't work. Because depression is not a choice. Depression is not an act of selfishness. Depression is a disease that destroys all that is good. It takes everything away.

"I'm going out to meet a friend at a full moon thing at an art gallery. I don't really want to. I want to just take a long shower and drink a lot and curl up in bed and pretend I don't exist. But honestly leaving is better for me today, as much as I don't want to and even if I don't enjoy it when I'm there. Staying here won't lead to good things. My logical thinking abilities are short-circuited. My patience is nonexistence (and my dog has a new hot spot on his tail but won't let me do anything for him and keeps trying to lick it and I seriously want to be so violent with him in a way that almost frightens me). I can't logic my way out of cutting or distract my way out or find any way out besides actually going out, to a place with other humans. Because you can't just take a razor to your arms in the middle of an art gallery. Unless you are the artist, then you totally could."

We want help. Even if it doesn't seem like it (because if we really wanted help, wouldn't we be better by now?). If you have a depressed friend who is no fun, invite them to things anyway. Even insist they come. Maybe you know they don't really want to be there. Maybe they will say no 9 times out of 10. But also, maybe they will come. And being there may be keeping them from being unsafe. They might still self-harm when you aren't around, you can't save them from all the horrors of depression, but it still helps. The most important thing to remember about depression is that just because you can't fix it, doesn't mean you can't help. 

"I realize this email might be the kind that causes concern. No need for that! I'm fine. I'll be okay. I mean, in the way that I think you understand. I'll still be here tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Fine in that kind of way. (If I wasn't I wouldn't actually be writing this email.)

thanks, as always. typing this out on my phone hiding in corners at work was a life saver. actually I was mostly sitting on the roof deck. #thestruggleisreal"

If your depressed friend or family member is communicating, that is a good sign. Even if what they say is scary or worrisome. Try your best to listen without shutting them down. Things like, "Don't say that!" and "That's not true!" and "You're just thinking too much." Not helpful. In fact, probably nothing you say will help. Let them know you hear them anyway. Because more than any words in the world, knowing someone is there is what's most helpful. It's perfectly fine to let them know you are worried, but try not to make it about you. (If your friend had cancer you wouldn't tell them how hard their illness was on you, or that you can relate because your cat had cancer.) Offer to look up numbers of mental health professionals in their area (and follow through). If you live near them offer to drive them to appointments. (Also, being uninsured is a huge problem when looking for help, but every city has at least one place that accepts uninsured clients. They aren't always great, but they are better than nothing.) And try not to be surprised if counseling and medication don't fix everything. 

Last, but not least, thank you. Thank you for being a friend to someone who is hurting. It's not easy and it often feels futile when your efforts don't make some visible improvement in their lives. But more than likely you are unknowingly playing a role in saving a life. 

Hello again.

It's been awhile since I've blogged. Or written at all. I'm going to start again with no explanation for the gap or any attempt to tie things together. Just, Hello again.

New Beginning

I lost myself.

I lost me.

I lost myself, only to find I was never "me" to begin with.

I searched the world with my eyes closed. I knew I could find me if I tried, tried, tried.

Instead I found darkness.

I said, "I will do anything..."

I ran straight for the end, determined to win.

I gave up everything. All of it. Everything.

I opened my eyes to see the destruction.

Only to see I'd been given

                                                                      A new beginning.

"Together" and what it looks like not to have it.

As I near age 29, I've begun to freak out about turning 30. I never (ever, ever, ever!) thought I'd care about turning 30. Ever. Because obviously I'd have it together by 30. That was the idea anyway. Now that I am nearing that sacred year, I've realized togetherness doesn't just happen with age. And if it does, I have a helluva lot to get done in a year and a half.

Don't get me wrong, I know it's not a requirement to have things together by a certain age, and that "together" is a very loose term that may or may not actually exist in the real world. But it doesn't change the fact that I want it. And that I want it at a reasonable age (any time now would be great). So I've been doing a lot of thinking. Thinking about why I long for this idea of togetherness so desperately. I started thinking about my existence, my choices, all the little and big things that have brought me to this big mess of a life. Then I started thinking about this messy life of mine. It's splattered and seeping with colors. I've spent a lot of time worrying about coloring inside the lines, freaking out when colors run over each other, fighting desperately to keep them separate and in their proper places. I've given up a few times, throwing my paint brush, knocking paint over and letting it spill onto everything. I get extremely overwhelmed when I look at the mess because I have no idea how to clean it up. Can I please just start over?! I scream at the skies, making promises of doing better if I just had a clean start. But then I started thinking about what I'd do if I actually was given a do over. I did a lot of thinking about this, but no matter how I tried to imagine different outcomes, I realized I wouldn't change anything. I couldn't change anything. Because when I took a step back and looked at my life, I saw this amazing, messy, chaotic, beautiful, and surprising picture. I realized my life is not paint-by-numbers but a canvas in the process of being filled. I see the places where I spilled, and where my colors ran together, I see the pain I felt then, and it still hurts, but I also see how those colors make my life what it is. My colors make me who I am. And for once, I kinda like me.

So I'm ok not being together. It still sucks when I get to thinking how much easier it would all be if I had a paint-by-numbers guide. But then I remember that world is a prison. Being free might be messy, but it's my mess. It will all still freak me out, and I might cry about it at times, but then I'll remember my canvas still has space to fill, and I'll pick up my paint brush again. Or maybe I'll get really adventurous and do some finger painting as well.

Joy

I don't know a whole lot about joy, but I've caught glimpses of it and it looks lovely. I do know a lot about happy, excited, even laughter and twinkly-eyed smiles. Those may sound like the same or similar things, but the biggest difference is that while you can pretend all those things, you can't pretend joy. I know all about pretending, it often comes natural to me. In fact it's almost an art form, like acting or interpretive dance. It can be quite tiring after awhile, and so sometimes you just have to put up your phone and only be around people you can be real with. I'm sure you know this yourself, but that number can get real low, real fast.

Everyone wants to think they are real and that they want others to be real. Being "real" is a real compliment (although rarely accurate). "I'm SO tired of all the bullshit and drama, why can't people just be real?" I'll tell you why. Because real can get real frightening, real quick. And real can be really uncomfortable, even when you think you're ready for it.

I can be a whole lot of real and honest here in internet-land. No one is looking at me, trying to finish my thoughts, trying to match my feelings with some they've felt before (but have now masterfully overcome, of course). Trying to appear like they are listening, when really they are frantically trying to come up with something helpful to say. You know, to fix it. To fix this ugly, dark realness. No one wants to leave you there. I sound like a sarcastic douche, but I really do commend the effort. It's just, it feels more like people are trying to convince you to be ok. And a lot of the time, people won't be satisfied until they are convinced you are ok. And most of the time, it's just a whole lot easier to skip all the bullshit and drama and pretend to be real. Or avoid people. It all depends on the level of energy required.

Back to joy. My new quest in life is to find joy. Real joy. The kind that doesn't go away on a bad day, or when the bad days keep coming. The kind that doesn't need a smile or peppy words to prove it's real. It just is. Because real isn't always ugly, cold, and painful. Real can be quite beautiful, warm, and healing. I am really starting to believe that joy is more than just a back drop to a happy life. I think it may be an epic journey. That's right, epic. One full of adventure, surprise, and even uncomfortable beauty. If my theory is right, I've found breadcrumbs and road signs, but I've gotten distracted more than a few times by the alluring and misleading scenic route--also known as, people-pleasing. Go down that path too long and you'll start to believe joy is just another fairytale, as easy to lose as a stupid (and terribly impractical) glass slipper. I don't think joy is something you find all at once, nor do I think it's something you lose. What I do think is that as you gather the bits and pieces, they add up to something worth living for.

Just thoughts.

Lemons

"When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."

Am I the only one who hates that stupid phrase?

First of all, lemonade is definitely not my drink of choice (especially not in the middle of winter). Second of all, what if you're out of sugar? What if you are so exhausted, you don't even have the energy to go to the store to buy sugar, much less to squeeze the juice out of life's endless supply of lemons? Even if you own an industrial sized lemon squeezer, making lemonade is quite the work out. Trust me, I worked at McAlister's. So I guess my question is, if you are fresh out of energy and sugar, what are you supposed to do with all these damn lemons? Am I the only one who thinks of these things?

Here is my current theory--although, mind you, I am no expert (even if I did work at McAlister's). When life gives you lemons: stop taking them. Seriously. Slam the door in life's face if you have to. Don't answer the phone. Stop following life on facebook. Just say no. Despite what you may have  been taught as a kid and young adult, you don't have to accept life's freaking lemons. You can say 'no thank you', or give life the finger. Whatever fits. Just make sure you aren't about to back down at some persistence, because life's a bitch, and rarely backs off without a fight. My theory is that, eventually, life's got to figure out that lemons just aren't cutting it and start supplying something else, right? Maybe chocolate? Or coffee? (A girl can dream.)

Life and I are currently in a standoff. I'll let you know how that works out for me.

Warning: Pity Party Commenced

Do you ever feel like you are just not cut out for real life? It's too hard. You look at those who you may have once accused of being coddled and think, Man, they have it made! And your friends who have it even tougher than you and think, How do they do it?? You may dream of beaches, warm sand, the sound of a never ending tide that washes back and forth, tuning out the struggles that weigh so heavily on your frail heart. And then wake up and realize you are still here. In the real world. And boy does it suck.

Too often in life I am caught between the act of dreaming and doing in this awkward and rather claustrophobic spot of surviving. Survival sounds like such a tough word, one used to describe the strong and determined. But if you've ever been there, you know how terribly weak and small it feels. Survival is not on the warm sand by the rhythmic tide, survival is in the midst of the waves. Crashing down on you. Your only job is to keep your head above water, and most of the time that feels like much too much.

Let me clarify... I am in the midst of packing up my house. Again. And to make matters worse, it's the first day of fall. So naturally I am procrastinating by writing a sappy post about how hard life is. It's kind of my thing. I'm sipping my second cup of coffee, complaining about the freezing "fall" weather (it's 61 degrees! It might as well be winter!), grumbling about all the idiots romantics oohing and ahhing about this pumpkin-flavor-filled season, and feeling extra depressed about the fact that my pregnancy/stress-eating weight is still safely attached to my body--meaning I won't be fitting any of my cool weathered clothes any time soon.

Don't get me wrong, there is plenty to be thankful for. It's just, it's the first day of fall. And I'm moving again. So I'm going to pout for a bit.

"I Don't Know."

There comes a time in life when you just have to admit it. This is who I am. And the puffing up and self-proclaimed confidence are just coping mechanisms that help you deal with the reality you like to pretend isn't real. Every time I make a life decision, people ask me questions. LOTS of questions. Not just about me, but about my husband, and my kids, and how I am going to make sure they are all doing what they need to do. My assumption is they want to feel like I know what I am doing and that I've got everything under control.

But guess what?

I don't. This is my first life. I'm still figuring things out. It just doesn't come as naturally to me as it seems to come to others. I like to use the generalized, "I'm human" response when explaining how lost I really am. But I am beginning to wonder if that word doesn't mean what I think it means. Because when I admit that I am really insecure, and I don't know what to do, and I actually don't have any real idea what life's answers are, people tend to look at me like, "Oh you poor thing..."

Yes, I know, I am normal. No one really knows what they are doing. We are all figuring it out. But there is an unspoken rule that you can only admit you are lost if you then have a plan to make it right. To figure it out. Because I think the fear is, if your answer is, "I don't know." And you have no plan on how to "know" then the sky might fall and bury you in despair and hopelessness. And there is nothing people like less than someone they can't fix.

Boobs

There are few things more fascinating or mesmerizing to this world than boobs. They are everywhere. Billboards advertising anything from sneakers to car parts. Magazines. Movies. Music. Our world loves boobs. Flash 'em for beads! Show them off at the beach! At the pool! At the mall! Show us your boobs! That is, unless you are feeding your baby, then FOR GOD'S SAKE WHERE A COVER!

I've been using my boobs for the sick habit of feeding my babies since 2008. When I first started I thought nothing of it. My baby had to eat. His food came from my boobs, so I used them for what I figured God intended them for. I fed him at coffee shops, in restaurants, on public benches. I didn't even wear a cover (gasp). I was so young and naive I didn't even realize I was doing anything wrong. Some people hinted at the use of a nursing cover, telling me where I could buy them, how useful they were. I would innocently reply that my son wouldn't nurse with anything over his head, not picking up on the hints those people were kindly tossing my way. I wore layers, and my shirt usually covered what my baby's head didn't, so I didn't see the need for a cover anyway.

When I first started noticing that I was making other people uncomfortable was when I was feeding my son at a restaurant when a well intentioned friend mentioned she would never feed her hypothetical child in public. How would you go anywhere or do anything? I asked stupidly. She confidently told me if she had to feed said child in public, she would obviously retreat to the nearest restroom. Ew. I said. Would you sit on those toilets? Most don't even have lids or seat covers! What about the flushing? You'd basically be feeding your baby in toilet water. And how could you bear to sit in a bathroom for 20-45 minutes while your friends finish their meals and have to wait for you? How inconvenient. I ignorantly went on and on about how silly it would be to nurse in a restroom when you can easily sit and nurse comfortably in a chair while you eat and/or talk to your friends. She just shook her head.

I had my first child in Asheville, NC. It's a city known for being weird where public breast-feeding and other barbaric practices are fairly normal, so I lived happily in my ignorance for a year or so. Thinking those who thought I was weird, or disturbing, were the strange ones. But when I left my town I noticed I never saw other mothers feeding their babies the strange way I had somehow come to see as normal. There were moms toting bottles, ignoring their tender swollen breasts until they could get to a private place to pump. And a very few brave ones with small, frequent eaters wearing nursing covers, huddled in private-ish corners. Like Eve after tasting the forbidden fruit, I started to become aware of my nakedness. How had I been so unaware of my inconsiderate flashing of flesh? Suddenly the stares became more and more evident to me. But by this point, my son began only nursing before bed and I didn't have to face nursing in public any longer.

When my second son was born, I was much wiser and more aware of other peoples' needs and concerns. I bought a nursing cover, determined that this child would learn to nurse with his head covered. It wasn't until about the third apology I received for someone talking to me while I was breastfeeding (with a nursing cover) that I realized they were not apologizing to me, but for me. And that when women said comments like, "You are so brave, doing that in public!" they were not really complimenting me. While I was comfortable, they were not, and they needed me to be aware of that. And thus began my journey into a much less familiar territory of uncomfortable feeding in public. Rules I was learning: 1)Yes, please happily enjoy your new large breasts by wearing shirts that display them pleasingly. 2) By no means ever expose them while feeding a child. This portrays unnatural behavior, only acceptable in countries where pumps and nursing covers don't yet exist. 3) Please spend hours pumping to make life more convenient to those around you. No one wants to stop and wait for you to nurse, and heaven forbid we catch a glimpse of your areola! Save that for the nudey magazines! 4) Nursing covers are great alternatives to never feeding in public. But please, even if you are using a cover, please refrain from talking to others while doing the deed. Do not draw attention to yourself, and if at all possible, find a private place away from others to retreat to. Great options include: your car, public restrooms, quiet corners (make sure to keep your head down, do not make eye contact or encourage speaking with others, lest some unsuspecting person feel free to walk by and say hello only to realize what you are doing).

I quickly realized that if I was going to go anywhere or do anything, I could not make everyone happy or even comfortable with my boob-feeding habits. I realized I was going to just have to do it anyway. Now as I nurse my third child, I have long since discarded the nursing cover (I know, I know, but for some reason I just can't train my babies to eat in a hot box with ease!), and I nurse when and where I have to. Does it bother me that I get stares or comments? Yeah. My fear is not that I will lose my freedom to feed my baby in public, my discomfort is what this says about what we believe about women's bodies. My worry is what we might be continuing to teach this next generation to believe about women's bodies. My disgust is that we have so sexualized our bodies that we allow no room to use them in the way they were intended. I am not making a statement when I nurse my daughter in public. I am not "taking a stand" or sticking it to the man. I am not looking for attention, nor am I ashamed. I'm just feeding my baby. It's not always comfortable and I often feel like people think I am doing something strange or wrong. But my daughter is healthy and happy, and I am not confined to my home. Although I must admit, I do take courage in the fact that when other kids see me nursing my daughter and they say something like, "Ew! Why is she doing that?" I hear my son say, "What? She's just feeding my sister."

Mawwiage...

Marriage is difficult. We all know it. We all see it. And yet for some reason we choose to ignore it. I mean, people will say things like, "Marriage is tough!" But that is always quickly followed by, "But sooo worth it." Or something to that extent. When it comes down to it though, we don't really want to believe that marriage is difficult. When it gets too hard, we decide there is something wrong. Most people choose one of two things: to end it, or to "put up" with it. From what I've seen in my life, few people actually push through and truly change it.

Let me pause here for a second and clarify. This is not a judgment piece. I have only been married a little over 6 years, and while we have been through a lot, I'm not about to pretend my husband and I have conquered all hardships, and I'm not about to pass judgment or pretend I know some generalized answer to all marital issues.

Marriage is difficult. Living with another person day in and day out. As much as you love them, you are different and you're not going to see eye to eye on everything (sometimes it may feel like you don't see eye to eye on anything). You're going to feel like you are right about 98.9% of the time. And your spouse will feel the same. This is difficult.

I think the majority of people have this image of marriage that portrays a perfect relationship. One that completes, enriches, and empowers. One that fills your needs (and so of course you automatically fill your spouses needs as well, of course). That's how human relationships work, right? You may snicker to yourself when you read that, because you know better. But when it comes down to it, and it doesn't look like that, isn't your first instinct that it's not right? That maybe it won't last? That maybe it should end?

Marriage is the perfect example of all that is hard about human relationships. Because you can't just walk away. Even ended marriages are a part of you forever (all relationships are, but an ended marriage, whether "good" or "bad," seems to be particularly scarring). Relationships are binding, and while many have positive aspects that make the negative worthwhile, none are perfect arrangements. No real relationship is easy.

So basically, because we are human (aka freakin' messed up), we're not ever going to find a perfect relationship. I think that's ok. I think we need to change our outlook on marriage (and relationships in general). Instead of viewing it as a tool to achieve self worth, happiness, or purpose, perhaps we should try to view it as what it really is? A partnership. Anyone who has had to work with a partner for any extended period of time knows that at some point or another, one of you is going to be pulling a little extra weight. Encouragement, accountability, and commitment is required to make a partnership work and to accomplish whatever it is you are working for. The best partnerships work because both partners have the same end goal. Whether or not their methods are the same, they are both working toward the same thing. The best partnerships work when each partner uses their particular strengths, admit their weaknesses, and use their differences to work together. We are all headed somewhere with our lives, if we choose to walk with a partner, we have to realize it's not going to be all about ourselves (whether you want to see that as a positive or negative thing is up the individual). A good partnership can make even the hardest task doable. A bad partnership can make even the easiest task impossible.

I'm starting to see that what makes a relationship beautiful is not so much the partners as much as the partnership. And a good partnership takes a lot of hard work. Whether or not it's worth it is entirely up to you.

Moving

I woke up early to feed my baby girl and couldn't fall back to sleep. My house is in boxes. Again. I really thought we were done moving for awhile. I thought another move might kill me. But here we are. Moving. Figuring it out as we go. Sorting through the stress and mystery of what tomorrow might hold. Oddly enough, I am pretty excited. Pleased even. The funny thing is, this is our 3rd move in a year (and that's just in a year), and we are moving right back to the place we left a year ago! It would be easy to look back now and see where we went wrong, or what we could have done differently, and how we could have spared ourselves the stress and drama of moving house so much. But truthfully, so many life-saving (literally) things happened through these moves, that I can't feel regret.

I won't lie, I am craving stability like a soft warm bed after many sleepless nights. I want to know that in a year I will be in the same house, or even just the same city. I want to know that I'll have a chance to put down some roots, make some family traditions, have friends to grow close with, and a home that really feels like home. I want all that a lot. Like a lot, a lot. And don't get me wrong, I think stability can be good for the soul, healthy, and needed. But I am thankful for the change all the change in our life has brought. The healing, reconciliation, and trust it has developed.

It feels weird to say it, but all the chaos, stress, and change has brought a lot of clarity. Security. And peace. Not to say I didn't bite off all my nails and eat a pint of ice cream in one sitting this weekend in between packing boxes and binge watching Netflix. But hey, I didn't kill anyone, and I still have a full head of hair, so I'd say it was a pretty productive weekend!

On the road again. Hoping for some stability, while trusting God's grace is sufficient in my weakness.

This Mess We Call Life

It's pretty easy to say that the last two years were the worst of my life. The. Worst. Worse than all the other worsts combined. I almost lost my life. I almost lost my marriage. I almost lost my faith. I was so lost. I thought I would never make it out.

I think it's funny when younger girls have asked me for advice. First of all, it's really weird to be the "older" one. Second of all, although I try to patch together some life experience and pass it along, really I just want to laugh and say, "You want to know what to do? Look at my life, and do the opposite!" BOOM baby! Life figured out.

Some days I wake up and I get butterflies. I'm not just happy to be alive. I'm happy I want to be alive. I look at my kids and I'm just overwhelmed with gratefulness and love. I look at my husband and and I fall in love with him all over again. I melt with thankfulness for his love. For some people these feelings are normal. For me they are new and wonderful. Because for so long I was so lost in worry, fear, anxiety, bitterness, and emptiness that I couldn't see what I had. And even when I could, I couldn't feel it. I couldn't feel anything but pain. So now I get butterflies. Because life, no matter how chaotic or unstable or confusing or frightening, is so, so good.

It would have been good enough for me to know I would make it out of that time with my heart still beating. But to not only make it out alive, but with a clearer sense of life, a stronger marriage, and a deeper faith than ever before? I can say I am thankful. Thankful for a God who can use the worst years of my life, and make beautiful things from the dust.

In the Throes

Most of the time when I look at myself as a mother, I focus on all the negatives. I see all the ways I am failing. All the things I am not doing. All the things I am doing that I said I would never do. As a parent you feel like since you have so much influence on other's lives, you should know what you are doing. And we should right? But we don't. So many of us are floundering in this sea of parenting. It can be terrifying at times. We don't like to admit it though. Just stick a new parent in a group of seasoned moms and watch as the advice pours forth with force. Even in the ways they are admitting they are lost, they have such confidence about it.

I remember when my oldest was still only an infant and not sleeping well at all. I felt like his sleep success was my sole responsibility, and I was failing miserably. I was exhausted and felt like a horrible mom. I talked with my mom friends who had 2 and 3 year olds. I remember thinking, Wow, they have this figured out. They told me what they did, and I tried everything. Nothing worked. I loved my son more than anything in the world, and yet I was really starting to believe I just wasn't cut out for parenting. A lot of people gave me a lot of good advice, but one friend during that time really sticks out to me. I don't remember her exact words, I just remember her telling me she knew how I felt. She had tried everything and nothing had worked. She didn't tell me what to do, in fact she admitted she didn't know. At the time I wanted someone to tell me exactly what to do. But now looking back, she's the one I remember giving me hope. That it was ok that I didn't know what to do. That I too would survive the sleepless months.

I was looking at my kids yesterday and I was just overwhelmed with how much I love them. Not because they are perfect kids. I mean they can be down right rude and annoying as crap. In fact, half the time I don't even know the "why" behind why I love them so much. And yet I love them so much that I want to be perfect for them. I want to know exactly what to do, how to raise them, how to teach them to grow up to be the amazing people I know they will be. My biggest fear is that I will ruin them. But the honest truth is, I don't know what I am doing. I'm taking it one day at a time and attempting to rest in the truth that they are in God's hands (in between my freak out moments). Because he's not just taking care of my left overs, picking up in the areas I don't have a hold on. He is probably the only being who loves them more than I do. Who cares more about their wellbeing. Who knows what He is doing. And that's the only thing that quiets my worries and lets me sleep at night. The God of the universe loves my kids. And he promises to take care of them, teach them, and never abandon them. When I think about that, I realize it's ok that I don't have it figured out. It's ok that I'm learning as I go.

Honesty doesn't always make us look good, in fact it rarely does. But it's what allows me to get back up after I fall on my face. And I fall on my face a lot. So here's to not having it figured out. Cheers!

Facing Facts

The most given advice to me as a mother is to learn to let things go. Don't worry about your house being messy. You can't do it all.

But the only thing I hate more than cleaning? A messy house.

Ok, ok. I get it. I have three kids, five and under. My house is not going to be pristine. Yet I still find myself stuffing down a small panic attack each time I wake up and see the disaster that is my home. I JUST cleaned! I scream in my head. Seriously. How does one function in this kind of chaos? In fact while writing this I had to get up 3 times to stop my two sons from flooding our house. I told them they could play with their water guns outside. So they stood outside and shot the water into the house. "We're shooting the ants!" They say with this sweet enthusiasm that makes it hard to be mad. (Well, not that hard).

I work really hard to keep my house clean, and it's still a health hazard about 95% of the time. Kids are messy. And gross. Right now I have one child in diapers--she's three-months old and solely breast fed, AKA 'Blowoutville'. One potty training, who has decided his new thing is wetting his pants on purpose (simply hilarious). And another still perfecting his butt wiping skills. So yeah, despite my obsession with clorox wipes and hand washing, sanitation levels are not where I'd like to see them.

So what's the moral of the story? Have I learned to call my home "lived in" instead of "messy?" Am I putting aside my desire for cleanliness in order to cherish these years of adolescent chaos? Have I risen above my petty need for organization and sanitation? Um. No, not really. I still run around like a slightly deranged version of Mr. Clean, repeating #cantstopwontstop over and over in my head, screaming obscenities under my breath, and raising my bleached hands to the skies crying, "Why God?! Whyyyy?!"

But no matter my efforts, my tears, my hashtags... chaos prevails. So I'm simply praying for grace, ya'll. Grace to survive these years of poop, never ending urine saturated laundry, and anything but organized living. May the force be with me.

Trusting. 1, 2, 3. Trusting.

My life looks nothing how I planned. For many years I have struggled with this. Battled it. Fought it almost to the death. I didn't think I would be so weak. I definitely didn't think I would be so flawed. I thought that when I "grew up" I would naturally be a woman who had it figured out, had a purpose, a plan, and a life that portrayed these things. 

What I didn't realize was how hard life would be. How much I would need others. How much sadness I would feel. How broken it would all be. I thought if I trusted God, I would have all I need. And all I needed, would be all I wanted. But honestly, it's not easy to trust God. Especially when your life doesn't look how you planned. And you don't feel like you have what you want. And what you need is more. 

I couldn't figure out why God wasn't doing all he promised. The truth is, when trust in God is just a bumper sticker and not a life source, God becomes very small. We stick our beliefs on our back bumpers and drive on searching for something bigger and better. We build sand castles and spend all our time and energy trying to keep them standing.

I gave up recently, and all my sand castles came tumbling down. I was crushed. So despaired. So lost. I thought, If God won't keep my sand castles up, does he even really love me? But when I finally stopped building, my only choice left was to trust. Like really trust. Not, I'll trust you as long as you do what I want... But I'll trust you. Period. And God spoke. And he made things happen. And it wasn't what I thought. It wasn't what I wanted. And then the building started again. I said things like, Ok God, you obviously aren't making this happen, so maybe you want me to handle it. Just give me some water so I can make this sand stick. I mean sometimes I run around gathering sand like it's my job. Acting like if I could just get some water up in here I could turn all this sand into the Taj Mahal. 
Sometimes I remind myself of my son who NEVER trusts my directional skills. No matter how many times we've been somewhere, he always asks, "Mommy, are you sure this is the right way to get there?" As if he could do a better job if I would only strap his booster in the driver's seat. I mean really.

I'm learning not to worry so much about getting it wrong though. My same son who loves to doubt my driving abilities has the hardest time getting himself cereal. I stand there with him and encourage him and say things like, "It's ok if you spill, we can clean it up. This is how you learn." And he kind of freaks out at the idea of spilling and asks me to just do it for him. You see sometimes I run around like a chicken with it's head chopped off because I want something more. And a lot of the time God uses that restlessness to get my attention. To teach me. And to move me in the right direction. But it rarely, if ever, looks how I imagine it will. And I'm realizing that trust doesn't mean sitting back with my feet up letting other people pour my cereal for the rest of my life, but trusting that God will be there even when I make mistakes. That spilled milk doesn't mean the end of the world. Trusting that when it doesn't look how I thought it would, the plan is God's not mine. And that's a good thing. Because no matter how certain they are they can do it, putting a 5 year old in the driver's seat is simply not good parenting. 

Welcome

My five year old is with his grandparents for the weekend, my two year old is napping, and my 2 month old is snoring on my chest. So I find myself asking, what can I do now? 

Even when I am completely overwhelmed and want nothing more than a 5 minute break to clear my cluttered mind, I still want to be capable of doing more. What I do is never enough. Never good enough. Never meaningful enough. Never satisfying enough. I am a broken vessel, constantly searching for something to fill me. Something to make me useful. Needed. Important.

Blogging is certainly not going to accomplish any of that. But I am determined to figure out a different way of living. Even if just for a moment here or there. Because we were not born to "do life right." We were born to live. 

Feel free to learn from me, laugh at me, or simply commiserate with me. 

Welcome!