Motherhood and Mistakes

It’s mother’s day. I am lounging in my bed waiting for my breakfast and coffee. I worked a nine hour shift yesterday in a store crawling with folks spending obscene amounts of money on greeting cards to commemorate mothers of all types. It was heartwarming and grotesque all at once. Consumerism at it’s finest… But this isn’t about that. I’m trying to paint you a picture of a woman relaxing.

I awoke this morning to Leo struggling to squeeze onto the edge of the bed next to me. It was about 6:45, but since most 5-year-olds have no concept of time or sleeping in, I welcomed it. Jason asked him if he would like to go over to the other side of the bed, but then we realized Maggie was already there. I lifted up the blanket and carefully edged back so he could play little spoon to my big one. He placed his sweet little arm around my neck and told me he dreamed about me. Then Adaline came in and said in her almost adult voice, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy!!! We got you a present!” At this point, I am wide awake and enjoying seeing my kids after being at work for an entire Saturday. But, a present? I am not big on presents and I would have much rather saved the money for a nice dinner out or some new leggings… But, presents… ok… here we go.

Jason ushered the kids downstairs for a bit so I could wake up slow. A little while later they all come back up with the same gift bag I had sold at least 25 of yesterday at work! It’s funny to think that while I was scanning away Mother’s Day finds yesterday at Target, my family was patronizing a different Target doing the same thing… I held my breath. I don’t like gifts and my family is not great at picking stuff for me. The one thing I asked Jason to do this year is to let the kids take the lead on Mother’s Day – to not do it for them. They are old enough to express their feelings, be it gratitude or indifference, so as parents we need to be willing to give them opportunity to act on them accordingly. I was  pensively expecting some combination of candy, jewelry that I won’t wear, and a coffee cup or water bottle.

As I untie the bag, glitter sprinkled all over my pillow, and Leo let me know it’s a candle. Which is meaningful and not just a cop-out - I will explain in a minute. There is also a pop-socket decorated with an image of a daisy, my favorite gum that I don’t buy because they take it, and three of the sweetest homemade cards I have ever seen. Construction paper folded in half with colored pencil hearts and misspelled words of love. Leo drew stick figures holding hands, Maggie said hers was mommy pushing stroller (because right now, that is all she wants to do when she plays “mommy” with her baby doll), and Adaline’s was carefully decorated with colorful hearts and stick figures with beautiful matching hair.

I cried. There was so much thought of and for me in that glitter bag that I feel wholly unworthy. Add the Facebook post acknowledging all the things I feel can go completely unnoticed by Jason, and you have a woman so overcome with emotions of gratitude she wants nothing more than to make her family breakfast on Mother’s Day. For what it’s worth, Jason rolled his eyes at the suggestion I make my own breakfast and is currently downstairs making biscuits from scratch while my coffee brews.

Our morning was a freaking Hallmark commercial in every way. Which is in such contrast to our regular life it is absolutely laughable!

On holidays like Mother’s Day, it is so easy to get caught up in the magical parts of motherhood. And that magic is real. I don't want to downplay it. To see the ways that loving another human so deeply can make one seem to have superhuman capabilities - it is truly magical! We celebrate the people who make our worlds go round. We buy and make gifts of all sorts. We feed them and let them take naps. The well-to-do folks may even get a trip out of the deal! But for me, the simplicity of this year’s celebration in our house is perfect. Mostly because the idea of being put too high on a pedestal leaves me feeling guilty, unworthy, and like I am living a lie (cue the sound of a record scratching to an abrupt stop!) Why? How can a woman dedicating her life to her kids on all accounts not want the recognition of that?!?!? It's hard work, but I am going to tell you why...

Like my mother and her mother before her, I make a lot of mistakes. Big ones. Ones my kids may need therapy to recover from. Ones that would give my spouse all the ammunition in the world to leave and never look back. I make mistakes born out of exhaustion and the unrealistic societal expectations of women. I make mistakes that other women judge me for. I make mistakes because I sometimes am selfish or use bad judgment.

The truth is, I fuck up on the regular. Most humans do.

The candle in my mother’s day bag is significant because I had a “more frequent than I care to admit” meltdown on Friday. Just two days ago, I was in my tiny kitchen that desperately needs a renovation. I have very little counter space and I was trying to put away groceries, do dishes, feed kids, and get ready for work at the same time. This is what closer to what our mornings are usually like! I was trying to shift stuff around on the less than 2.5 feet of counter space I have to make PB&J for the kids without having to put stuff on the floor. I moved a bowl a fraction of an inch, which moved my candle a fraction of an inch, which sent it crashing to the ground. Glass and children and grocery bags and random wet spots from God-knows-what were all over the floor. 

I burst into tears. I made a mistake.

Not of knocking off the glass candle. A bigger one that the shattering of the candle brought to the surface. I regret leaving Tallahassee. Being in my tiny kitchen, and the accidents that happen because of that remind me daily that I miss my former home.

You may be saying, “WHAT? She JUST got there…” Trust me, I KNOW!!! And all I can say is, “Me, too, folks. I think I am crazy, too.”

As I swept up glass I found myself thinking “this wouldn’t have happened in Tallahassee!” Truthfully, it probably would have, but let me have my moment, please. I hear Baby from my favorite movie Dirty Dancing pacing back and forth angrily saying, “I HURT MY FAMILY! YOU LOST YOUR JOB ANYWAYS! I DID IT FOR NOTHING!”

Because our move was a choice born out of desperation, it was hard to rationalize possible negative repercussions. Jason hadn’t worked. We needed the equity in our house. My relationship with my mom was complex, so asking her for support when Jason ended up traveling for work was not ideal. My sister in Knoxville, who is by all measures my best friend, was eager for us to be closer… So I did it. Without really thinking it through.

Please note that Knoxville has been good to us. For those reading this that have befriended us and helped us acclimate, this is nothing against this place or your lovely friendships. It is just not the home we thought it would be. If I may quote another cheesy movie, I think of Reese Witherspoon in Sweet Home Alabama when she is telling the amazing suiter waiting at the alter that, “I gave my heart away a long time ago.” I already have a hometown, and it’s not Knoxville.

So, back to how I mess up… as evidenced by the public admission that I miss Tallahassee so much that I can’t even think about it without crying, I make big mistakes. Huge ones (now I am thinking about Pretty Woman... maybe I just need to watch some movies...) In addition to the big ones, I yell. I am lazy at times. I give in more than I care to admit. And I do all those things because I am in fact, not the superhuman Mother’s Day memorializes me as.

I am a human. A regular one. And as such, I am allowed to make mistakes. Especially if I learn from them. I am allowed to have a temper, especially if I recognize my error and work to fix it. I am allowed to be more than an image of a goddess, drowning in patience, lightly smelling a baby head and driving kids to soccer practice in a perfectly selected outfit with pristine hair in a clean van.

This Mother’s Day, my family showed me that they hear and see my REAL feelings and THEY LOVE ME ANYWAYS. They have a mother that yells, cusses, and comes up short so many times in a week that it is unbelievable. And THEY LOVE ME ANYWAYS. They have a mother that tries, really hard, to be present and functioning, but sometimes gets caught up in Facebook. AND THEY LOVE ME ANYWAYS. They have a woman who has a short temper, too little sleep, a “to do” list impossibly long, with the weight of life’s choices on her mind and body… AND THEY LOVE ME ANYWAYS.

I hate cut flowers – they make me think of death (both the death of the flowers and because I cannot smell them without my mind rushing back to the funeral home full of flowers when my dad died.) But I do love daisies. They are the flower I drew so many times growing up; so simple and sweet! So my family got me something I needed – a popsocket for my new phone with a daisy on it.

They replaced my shattered candle that brought my humanity to the surface.

They got me gum that I don’t have to share – because I am insanely selfish.

And they made me cards that show me how they feel. Undeniably, these children love me. The real me. Not the one you may envision writing this. Not the one who takes 47 pictures before finding the one that looks the least like me to post on Instagram. The actual real me – who is usually braless, disheveled, looking for a Coke or coffee, trying not to lose her shit about the amount of dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor. The mom who drives them with windows down and loud music. The mom who loves the slow morning snuggles and making a big weekend breakfast. The one who says no, but let's them know they don't have to give up just because I said so. 

I am here to tell you that motherhood is not magical friends. It is making mistakes with impressionable people and hoping you are teaching them enough kindness in your better moments that they forgive you. It is taking advantage of the good times and powering through the hard ones. It is recognizing your mistakes for what they are – nothing more and nothing less. Because, despite what so many cards, commercials, and social pressures would have us think, we are not superhuman. 

And we don’t have to be. Because they will, and do, love us anyways.

This mother’s day, I hope we can grant the influential women in our lives enough grace to be human. To give them the gift of being heard and acknowledged. To simply return the love she gives you.

And… if she is tired or hungry, go ahead and meet those needs, too. But please, keep her off the guilt ridden pedestal. Let her be a regular human and still loved. Because that is what she does for you.

Sunday Donuts

Donuts.


A few Sundays ago, we woke up to sunshine for the first time in several days. I really enjoy rainy days, but a few rainy weeks left me feeling isolated and longing for the weather we left in Florida. I don’t know if many of you keep up with the weather patterns of East Tennessee (because that sounds like a fun hobby, right?) but we have had some pretty dangerous flooding in February. There was nearly double the annual rainfall here since January 1^st (usually about 7.5 inches at that point in the year and we had 11+).


But when we saw the sunshine and felt the early signs of spring that morning, and we decided it was going to be a great day. Which starts with donuts. We haven’t gotten donuts in months because we haven’t had the money, so this was an exciting treat!


I haven’t been terribly open about it, but last year our family had another 6-month round of unemployment. I was very vocal before our move to Knoxville about Jason’s job status. He hadn’t worked in a few months, and that is hard for any family. We were fortunate and he found a job that took him away from us right before we left Tallahassee, yada yada yada. “Is this lady a broken record or what?” Well, what I haven’t been as vocal about is that that contract ended in August of 2018 and Jason only went back to work at the end of January of this year. We both felt confused and angry. Embarrassed. Misguided. Stupid… any negative feeling you can have about yourself– we felt it. You may be asking yourself -


HOW COULD IT HAPPEN AGAIN?!?!?


Honestly, I just don’t know. As a woman who rarely has a shortage for words, it is hard to summarize all of the complex feelings and thoughts about only working 10/18 months. The old “bad things happen to good people” line seems fitting. I could also now write a pretty accurate novel about nepotism and old money in Knoxville. Sure, sometimes you blow an interview, but we have also learned that sometimes a company interviews people as a formality, never really intending to hire from outside the company. The truth is, I don’t know why it happened again! Jason is a hardworking, reliable, well-educated man… we started looking for new work months before his contract ended… I just don’t know why it took so long. But what I do know is that my husband now has a great job that doesn’t take him away from us. He likes what is doing, where he get to go, and who he is spending his days with. Please thank whoever you pray to for me, I’m not sure I have them all covered at this point.


Back to the matter at hand… Donuts… Because we had $20 to spare… We loaded up the kids and took them the donut shop when found last summer. We let them each pick two. I like seeing them get excited and debate over what they want. Adaline is adventurous and loves to try new ones – but will always settle for a Boston cream filled. Maggie doesn’t care what she gets, as long as she leaves with more sprinkles than she came in with. And Leo is the kind of guy who wants the same thing every time – vanilla frosted, preferably with sprinkles but he can handle without; much like Jason who only ever wants a fresh apple fritter. Me? I don’t really care as long as there is no jelly in my donut. I am quite the fan of blueberry cake, though…


Leave it to a fat woman to write an emotional post about donuts, right?


But there are all these feelings about them. When I was a little kid, donuts were a big deal. My dad worked nights my entire life, usually getting home just as we were getting out the door to go to school. But, on a lot of Saturdays, when we heard his keys jingle in the door, we knew there was a box of donuts in his hand. He would take the time to go to Frank’s IGA on his way home and pick out six chocolate and six plain donuts for us. They came in a long white box with a crinkly plastic window – the chocolate would get on the plastic as my dad would try to juggle his stuff from work, a gallon of milk, and this long sleeve of donuts. That was coveted chocolate – the goal was to get the donut with the most chocolate AND scrape the window chocolate off before anyone else could. There were smiles, jokes, and Saturday morning cartoons.


I don’t have a lot of super happy memories of childhood; don’t get me wrong, they are there and the ones that I have are precious. But donut Saturdays are a very happy memory.


When I was in high school, I would buy the yearbook staff donuts every few weeks when I was editor. We would have “donut meetings” so we could get up to date on deadlines and section progress – but mostly it was a way for me to feel connected to my friends before school.

In college, I found Malasadas – Hawaii’s heavenly and superior answer to donuts. I always had at least one roommate willing to track down the Leonard’s truck with me if either of us were heartbroken or overly stressed.  


The first Sunday Jason and I found ourselves opting out of, and ultimately leaving, the LDS Church, we got several boxes of donuts and delivered them to our neighbors. We explained that we wanted to be better neighbors, and what better way to start that than with a box of donuts.


Are you seeing a pattern here? As I have become a mother, I love taking my kids to donut shops every few weeks and letting them pick out a donut because it represents such a simple joy – and it is a joy that is so easy to share. I mean, have you EVER met someone who doesn’t like some form of a donut? Can you think of anyone who would turn down the offer of such a delicacy? I truly think the reason we don’t have a higher minimum wage in this country is because employers appease us all with donuts on occasion… “I know 8.25/hour isn’t enough to sustain you AND you will only get enough hours to not need health insurance, but here is a DOOOONNNNNUUUUTTT!!!!” And we happily take the donut. Every time.


I digress, as I so often do…


But man, this second round of unemployment taught us what we are really capable of. It also taught us where our limits are. Our hustle game got stronger. We got creative with entertainment. We were blessed, yet again, by family and friends that saw our needs before we did. We asked for help when it was needed. I got a job at Target through the holidays and kept it because I actually like it. Jason Ubered. Did we survive? Did we come out stronger? Wholeheartedly, YES.


But we couldn’t get donuts.


And donuts are special to my babies. That connection and security I felt when I would hear my dad come in on Saturdays has been passed on to my kids. It’s not even about the donut shop or the money needed to buy them – it was about doing something special that makes them feel secure and loved. The comfort of a routine. Sure, I would make a big breakfast just about every other morning while Jason was home – pancakes, biscuits, kouign-amann from scratch, and the like. But it wasn’t our tradition. And when they would ask for that experience of going to the donut shop to look and pick, we had to say “no.”


It broke me every time. To see their faces sink to our response of “maybe next week” was the hardest part of unemployment.


Joblessness really opened my eyes to what other folks may be living through all the time. It has furthered my commitment to political views. Which are simple - if you are working 40+ hours a week, you shouldn’t have to worry about going to the doctor or being able to pay your bills. I am by no means comparing my inability to get my kids donuts to someone’s inability to pay rent or see a doctor. What I am equating is seeing that look of trust, connection, and security dim in the eyes of your children. It’s a hard thing to watch, and frankly anyone working 40 hours a week shouldn’t have to watch it.


But that Sunday morning, riding to the donut shop with the windows down reminded me that we somehow made it through. Our ends were stretched and met. And as my kids touched the display case, practically drooling, with me actively reminding them people work to keep the glass clean and to stop, my heart was full. They were excited. They felt the security we had been working so hard to provide. My grateful heart began leaking from my eyes. All the worry. All the fear. All the anger… it all melted away when they said, “can we get donut holes, too?” and I could simply say, “yes.”

I could go on for days about the freedom in that “yes.”

I could also probably stop blogging and write a bestselling collection of short stories called “Target Entitlement: A re-tale of rich people behaving badly.” I could write at least a few more paragraphs about how EVERYONE should be able to get their kids a donut every now and then… But I won’t. I just want to paint the picture of a BEAUTIFUL Sunday morning, complete with chirping birds and a sun so bright you had to squint. Of a mom and dad holding hands in a car. Of excited children speculating what the display case would be full of… And a family that felt hope for the first time in a while.


There are a lot of things in this life that I may never understand. A lot of things I’m not smart enough to grasp. But the simplicity of donut shop hope will never be lost on me. As I am emerging from the dark gloom of not knowing what was going to happen to our family, I am reminded that the wisdom gained from job insecurity and financial hardship is shareable. And this is what I want to share with you:

May we all be nice. Be patient. Be kind. To others, because we don’t know when the last time they had a donut was. And to yourself, because you probably deserve one more than you think.

The Beauty of Where I Am

Here are pictures that are almost 15 years old...

Travel Between Semester

Fixing a friend's car

Adventures galore

The death of my favorite pair of running shoes

Meet 21 year old Melissa. She had no clue, but she was a pretty hot piece of ass. Long naturally curly blonde hair. A beautiful tan from laying on the North Shore beaches of Oahu. She could captivate a room full of people by doing impressions or walking that fine line between funny and crude. Her whole future was ahead of her and she had not a care in the world.

In retrospect, those college years were absolutely the best years of my life. 21 year old Melissa totally had it made. I mean, Hawaii, no kids, and enough money to get a crab and bacon sandwich at Ted’s and fly to the Big Island to camp for the weekend… There is no way it could get better than that.

Unfortunately, those Hawaii years ended. I graduated and moved home to Tennessee. My efforts were solely focused on traveling the world and returning to Hawaii before I was 25. I would grow old in the sand and somehow transform into one of the wise old Polynesian women I had come to know and love.

Ah. The aspirations of a naïve little girl. Since I am 34 and writing this in Knoxville, you are safe in assuming I have neither returned to Hawaii nor have I become Polynesian. 

No. Instead you can meet 24 year old Melissa. Softer, but still a pretty bangin’ bod. Long blonde curls still firmly attached to a head that fell in love and started graduate school. The tan had faded as I traded Hawaiian beaches for the comfort of my hometown in Tennessee. I was a googly eyed newlywed with no intentions of having children – I just didn’t want any of it. Jason and I were both students and spent more time than not on campus. We were ambitious… Finishing gradaute school, getting a fancy professional job where I got to wear suit pants and blouses (that word just makes me giggle… especially when it’s pronounces like blouzes) were my main concerns. Two incomes, debt free, and retired traveling the world by 40 – that was the plan. 

Our only race together - The RC Cola Moon Pie Festival - 6 blissful months of marriage

You know? I was wrong. Looking back these were the best years of my life. I’ll never get the time back when Jason and I were just Jason and I. Our little apartment was so clean and full of love. Walks, LOST marathons, and indulging in finding our path as a couple was all I would ever need.

Obviously, the no kid train didn’t happen. In November of 2010 we found out we were expecting Adaline. Dread, fear, and worry washed over me. But so did excitement. I have never backed down from a challenge, and that was my view of parenthood. Some type of challenge I could win.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Here is a note on parenting – the kids usually win. 

So meet 27 year old new mom Melissa. My body was now officially a soft mom bod. My long blonde curls gradually became shorter, straighter, thinner, and darker. My tan was absolute history – although we had found semi-regular beach attendance by moving to Florida for graduate school. As much as I was struggling with the physical changes that come with motherhood, I had never felt such a continuous abundance of love. I was quite stunned at how much I enjoyed being a parent when my perception of parenthood had been so daunting. As much as what I had pictured for my life was no longer possible, that 8lb 8oz bundle changed it all for the better. My plans of endless travel and carefree clean house may be on hold, but the love, y’all. I can’t even describe it.

She completed me. Us. She made us a family and unlocked at big space in my heart. It was, without a doubt the best time of our lives. I could die happy knowing I had met her. THIS is what it was all about. I finally got it.

Then we did that two more times. My suit pants slowly transitioned to being hooked with a  rubber band. My thinner and straighter hair was often in a ponytail, then abused beyond belief and lobbed off into a pixie… My skin revolted anytime I even glanced at makeup. My life felt heavy. Work, family, school, repeat… I eventually traded the suit pants for leggings, and work for the stay at home mom life. Some might laugh at this point and say, “I never looked back” but the truth be told, I look back. A lot. Usually longingly.

Before we moved to Knoxville, I found myself in a place of complacency. Going through the motions to meet the needs of the ones I am responsible for. I often found myself working to “get back” to the historical versions of Melissa. The single beauty in Hawaii. The newlywed. The new mom… I felt like no matter how hard I tried, I would never get those parts of my life back. I feared I would just be another fat mom hollerin’ at her kids and grandkids in trademark southern phrases until I died.

I introduced you to all these versions of me for a reason. Last week, my family went on vacation. A week at the beach and pool, with naps and snuggles in between. Within 12 hours of being there, I found myself missing being so close to the beach. Missing our backyard pool in Tallahassee. Looking at our time in Tallahassee the way I have looked at the other seasons of my life – as the best years that can never be recaptured. A time that was so good we weren’t worthy of keeping it.

The simple fact is, my current life isn’t as glamorous as my previous ones. At all. I sleep very little. I only go shopping when necessary and never for fashion but function alone. My options to dine out are limited to places with a rewards app, a playplace, or a drive through. I drive a Kia minivan with a quarter jammed in the CD player and scratches from kids bikes being ridden too close; currently it also smells and I don’t know why. There are $700 worth of car seats that are rotated regularly to make room for bikes, groceries, library books, and to reduce the opportunity for swinging arms to make contact with siblings. I wake up before the sun but somehow still only have time to shower about three times a week. I worry that my house isn’t clean enough and that I will never be good enough. 

I don't know a single parent who can't identify with at least some of that...

We wanted to stay an extra night on our beach vacation – to extend that connectedness to the people I once was and the place that felt so much like home - but alas, another family was checking in that afternoon to make their own memories and we were destined to begin our journey back home to Knoxville. I was seriously bummed.

Seeing how sad I was, instead of hopping right back on the interstate, Jason drove along A1A with the windows down listening the the Jack Johnson station on Pandora. He was trying to extend that connection to who I was and the freedom of what my life used to be. He reached over from the driver seat and slipped his hand in mine. The song “Don't Worry" came on... Bob Marley has a way to reach the deepest parts of me. 

And I felt all the people I once was. The college girl on the beach. The young wife. The new mom. They were all right there.

In that moment, driving along A1A, I felt the highlight reel of my life, not in retrospect, but as it was happening. Everything slowed down. I heard my kids laughing as the wind snapped their blonde hair around. I felt Jason’s warmth, appreciation, and love for me as his thumb stroked my hand. The music and the beach view filled me with hope and peace that "every little thing, is gonna be alright..." I remembered that all those people, who were beautiful and had done amazing things, were sitting in the same seat as me. 

And I managed to feel the beauty of where I am. 

So often, we only feel the weight of our life. In my case, it is often the literal weight. We think our lives will be better if we could just get back to the weight we were in college… If we could just squeeze into our wedding dress… stop wearing the maternity pants once the baby is born! But sometimes the weight isn’t quite so literal, is it? Sometimes the weight is the hard parts of life we have forgotten with time – like:

College Melissa’s eating disorder. 
Newlywed Melissa’s fear of abandonment and need to learn communications skills.
New mom Melissa wondering, to this day, if her kids would be better off with a different mom.

As we drove, looking at the sand, water, and beautiful beachfront homes, I decided I wouldn’t trade what we are working on here for what I once had or something I would currently deem “better.” My history wasn't glamorous as I was living it; there was a lot of heartache before I was who I am...  I will not waste any more of my life longing for who I once was or what I once looked like - I will simply enjoy growing into someone better. I may not grow old in the sand or travel the world, but I will appreciate the beauty of the life I have and where I am. Because my history has provided too much wisdom and learning not to. I will love more deeply and be present for the good as opposed to just surviving the hard to look back on the good. I will relish in the smiles, breath in clean clothes, and laugh at wondering what I just stepped in.

Yes. My life is not glamorous. But this is the only life I have. And in 10 years, the life I am living now will be looked back on as the best years of my life. So, I better get to enjoying these now while I can.

Y'all. I'm crazy.

When I decided to start blogging and journeying into self-acceptance and body positivity, I was really thinking on a superficial level. I wanted other women who were like me – marginalized as fat moms and often overlooked, undervalued, and left out – to know they weren’t alone. To give a voice to women who could identify with breaking a chair at a PTA meeting and crying in dressing rooms. I thought I was doing something deep – I really did. But I didn’t realize how much work I would actually be doing on myself. In retrospect, wearing short shorts and complaining about the lack of sizes available all seems trivial when I look at where the thoughts and conversations on “body positivity” have taken me.

Accepting myself is a journey I think I will be on forever. I no longer think there will be some mountain top nirvana-like experience where I feel 100% comfortable in my own skin and fully capable of defining who I am. Don’t get me wrong, I am learning a tremendous amount about myself, but that looks so different than what I thought it would a year ago. Looking at this as a perpetual journey instead of one with an ending has changed so much…

The thing that has changed the most for me is the concept of self-care. Once upon a time, I believed that self-care was time in the gym, leisurely showers, nights out away from responsibility (re:kids), and pedicures. And if that is what self-care looks like for you, THAT IS OK. I am not here to define what is or isn’t ok for someone to do for themselves. Simply sharing my story…

For me, self-care has been 100% redefined. Perhaps because for a year we lived in survival mode and everything in our lives was redefined, so why not redefine self-care, too. Perhaps because I was attempting self-care without listening to my own body or needs – I was doing what I thought was supposed to work and what I had seen work for so many other people. I mean, a long shower and a pedicure without kids for a few hours does sound pretty good, right? But, for whatever reason, I felt like my attempts at self-care left me further isolated from my loved ones, no happier with myself, and didn’t really change anything. Getting away from the kids when I needed a break or going on a date night were never bad – but I never came back feeling like my cup had been refilled. I tried harder to make those breaks more meaningful or frequent, but nothing worked to “refill” my cup.

My “cup” seemed to have a steady leak at half full. When Jason left to work away, I was pouring double and triple out of a half empty cup. In February, I found myself with nothing left to give. My cup was bone dry. I had reached a point with my anxiety and rage that led me to a doctor’s office. I was having heart palpitations with no physical exertion and couldn’t sleep despite being exhausted all the time. I honestly went to the doctor for the physical issues – the anxiety, I assumed, was secondary! But when he asked what I was there for, I burst into tears. I cried out of humiliation. I had gained weight. I was barely holding on. I felt like I was letting every person I love down, while simultaneously resenting them for needing so much from me. And my heart was inexplicably racing…

I rarely talk about the rage part of my anxiety because I am ashamed of it. But as I sat in front of a doctor, terrified he would tell me the answer to my problems would be found in weight loss and exercise (because that has in fact happened – ask any fat person who has ever gone to a doctor) I sobbed. I felt like I was broken. I mean, what loving and devoted parent bites their tongue until it bleeds to keep from screaming at children? What kind of person avoids story time and puzzles with bright and really awesome kids by scrubbing a floor on their hands and knees? Who sits in a stupor from the minute they wake up until bedtime creeps in, and then wonder where the day went.

Hi! Me. All that is me. In an anxiety riddled place where I felt like I had completely lost control of my life, I did all of those things. And now, I was in a doctor’s office, where I usually feel very unsafe emotionally, divulging things to a male doctor that I had gone to simply on the recommendation of my sister. It was really desperation defined.

Historically, I have used lots of different unhealthy coping mechanisms to keep these anxious feelings quiet before they escalated to the rage state. Not really treating the anxiety, but just appeasing and feeding it. I would give it whatever it wanted just so I could function. I had restricted food drastically. I ran as many painfully slow, short strided miles as my body would allow. Obsessively weighed myself and “earned’ my meals through exercise. On the flip side of that, I have also binged on foods that I once restricted and spent entire days on the couch mindlessly watching TV simply to avoid thinking. I’ve also obsessively cleaned my house and taken on, what I have lovingly named “avoidance projects.” Which is my sweet way of saying extra work that keeps me too busy to think. I honestly think my Master’s degree was an avoidance project! My anxiety loves all these things. I love not being harassed by an inner voice… It felt like a win-win!

Becoming a parent changed that. I could no longer spoil my anxiety rotten and be the person I wanted to be for my kids. Learning how to love and be loved meant I needed to be present and able to express genuine emotion. Being a functional human – responsible for the wellbeing of other humans - means I have to address my problems and sort out my shit. And that is really hard and I DON’T WANNA DO IT. I had spent the last several years thinking I outsmarted my anxiety. Thinking that simply recognizing that I have this issue allows me to avoid it. I even managed to convince myself it wasn’t that bad…

Turns out, none of this works that way. You can’t avoid a car accident in front of your house. You can’t ignore an elephant in your living room. And you can’t avoid crippling anxiety living in your brain.

As I cried to this doctor, he heard me. And his response of, “I can help you find a medication if you are open to that” was shocking to me. In retrospect, my pearl clutching and being offended at the notion that I could be confused for someone who *needed* medication is so hilarious I can only imagine what this doctor thought! I am not sure if I was convinced my problems weren’t bad enough to warrant medication. Or if I was under the assumption that I could exercise enough endorphins into my system to combat the rage that is symptomatic of my anxiety. Most likely, though, I thought I didn’t deserve that much help. Any time I have contemplated if I needed medication, I would make a strict “do all these things FIRST” list. Usually an intense wellness regiment that included restricted foods and insane exercise, and if being religiously dedicated to those things didn’t “fix” me, I would allow myself to talk to a doctor. It was part of my avoidance cycle.

“Surely someone needs it more than me?” was my response. I hope you are laughing at that, because I am! That was really what I said. I sat there, hysterical with episodes of increased heart rate, teeth marks in my bottom lip, and not sleeping in weeks, and I questioned this doctor… sounds about right…

So, he proved to me I needed help. He asked me a series of questions. Things like:

Did I feel like I was a burden?  Yes  
Did I think my family would be better off without me? Absolutely
How often did I feel overwhelmed by daily tasks? Constantly

As I answered his questionnaires, I immediately wanted relief. I wanted help. I wanted to feel like myself again. And if a pill would help me do that, I was 100% on board.

Accepting medication for my anxiety was both the hardest and easiest decision I have ever made. And one I will never regret. I have always been an advocate for mental health treatment in ANY form a person feels most comfortable with. Pills, crystals, strict diets, aligning chakras – whatever works for you, do it! I would never hesitate to tell people to go to wherever they could get help, tell someone you need help, and go from there. I was especially an advocate about removing the stigma around mental health medication –

For other people.

Until I was prescribed medication for myself, I didn’t realize how much of a bias I held for treating mental health with pharmaceuticals. Initially, I felt like accepting meds was the easy way out. That I was somehow lazy for taking a pill instead of doing my list and ‘fixing’ myself. But, in treating myself, I have learned some big things -

My happiness is no less valid because a pill helps me get there.

My children have a mom who is loving and patient – and it doesn’t matter to them that I take a pill every morning.

The to-do list that used to weigh me down, is simply done now. Daily. I’m kickin’ ass and takin’ names!

The peace and moments of clarity I feel allow me to refill my cup in a way no amount of exercise, binge eating, or sleeping ever did.

Now, I can enjoy a pedicure. I can go on a hike with my family – even if there is laundry to do at home. I can make dinner – even if the kids are being loud. I can sleep at night, and not be kept awake with thoughts of how I am ruining every person I love.

Before I accepted that my problem was real enough for treatment, I wasn’t as present for the joys in my life. I went through motions and was a very convincing actress that I had it all together. Since beginning medication, I find joy in the moments that my toddler climbs on my back and brushes my hair. I see hope for my son and victory in his accomplishments. I know my oldest daughter feels safe and more secure without a raging mom around. My husband has a helpmeet again. I no longer see red when people have requests or needs something from me. I don’t feel the weight of things I cannot change.

Most importantly, I can feel the tremendous love I am surrounded with daily. I can feel the benefits of rest. I can feel proud of what has been accomplished by the end of the day – even if the house is messy and we had Little Ceasers for dinner. The hugs, sentiments, and laughter in our home is genuine. It’s not all rainbows and butterflies – I am still a homeschooling mom to 3 unique and high energy kids, trying to keep them safe, healthy, and happy in a broken world. I am still a fat mom, who is judged by society and assumed to be so many negative things. I am still a woman – and in this political climate that is a loaded statement. Life will never be easy, but for the first time in years, I feel like I can handle it.  

I really hope if you find yourself in a place like I did – trying to pour from a bone-dry cup – that you will seek whatever help you believe in and find a solution. You deserve it. You really do – even if you can’t see that right now.

p.s. I will get back to body positivity soon… There will be more traditional self-care, redefining beauty, and feeling good about yourself stuff. But, as evidenced by the almost 2,000 words before this, I had to get my mind right! Thanks for being patient with me!

A Pointless Post.

My anxiety manifests in a few ways, but mostly in unfinished projects and procrastination. To be a person who is known for getting things done, you would likely be shocked at how often I’ve done nothing until the final countdown! I can do everything quickly because I usually wait until the last second to do anything.

Which is why I have six half written posts sitting in my “Fat Mom” folder. Yes – 6. I have one I started in APRIL when an old man yelled that I was a bad mom while we watched a baseball game. Another about how healing from the tumult of 2017 is taking longer than I planned. Another about how I am not gracefully accepting being done having babies. Another about how searching for our home nearly broke me, but redefined “home.” So. Many. Posts.

So, here I am. Writing. We field tripped all morning, so Maggie is sound asleep. Dinner is prepped. Big kids are building Legos together with only occasionally shouting… I have not excuse not to take these few minutes the universe has so lovingly granted me and produce something… But I am wondering if this one will make it to post or just add to the other non-published posts in my folder. I hope it will.

We have been in a really good place the last few months. We got settled into a house. Our homeschool year is getting rolling, and we are so excited to have real plans this year. We have some trips coming up. Including a week at the beach. I am really looking forward to the holidays since last year was so crazy that we didn’t even put up a tree… I have some BIG holiday plans this year, folks. We are talking TWO Christmas trees, caroling, service, and so many friggin’ twinkle lights that Clark Griswold would be proud! I digress...

I must admit, one of the hardest parts of recovering from the last year has been feeling bored. Yep, you read that right. B-O-R-E-D. Jason left his job in July of 2017. We had to hustle to make ends meet. He spent a bit of time in West Tennessee with his family as his grandfather passed. Then he went to New Jersey. Then I fixed up and sold the house. Then we moved. Then we started homeschooling. Then we looked for a house. Then we moved again… Hectic is the most moderate word I can think of to describe our last 12 months.

And with anxiety that was only medicated for part of it, I can say it was certifiably miserable.

Now we are in this place of calm, I feel very pensive. Jason will likely be traveling again soon, but we are settled, have loads of plans and activities, and supportive family 5 minutes away. The kids are happy… I feel like I am waiting for the hammer to drop, but for the first time in years, there is honestly no hammer. Our life is really damn good right now…

And that is where the boredom sets in. And where there is boredom there is increased anxiety. I cannot help but feel like I should constantly be tackling some major life problem. Truthfully, my constant state of panic and  need to getthingsdonerightnow has served me well in the last year. There were things to worry about all the time, so my need to worry about things all the time was fed heartily! Now, there is little to worry about outside of the normal life stuff… and I find myself resorting to procrastination to feed that need to worry.

Messed up, huh? My life is so good that my brand of crazy wants me to intentionally create distress so I can feel comfortable.

Maybe it was my chaotic childhood… I never really learned how to function in calm. I never learned how to accept peace. I’ve honestly just never felt safe enough to say, “yeah, we are gonna take it easy.”

Maybe it is that I feel I don’t deserve this good life. The love of my family. The kindness of strangers ( I talk about this a lot in the post about the old man that yelled at me. No worries! I yelled back!)

So many questions. No idea of the real answers.

In an effort to change this need to create panic, I am going to post this. I am not sure why. I feel like this post doesn’t really have a topic. Or theme. No real point other than to say, “hey – life is good, but I’m still a little nutso!” It feels silly to post. But I just need to finish something!

I hope if you know this feeling, you come heal right along with me. It’s a journey for sure, and one that is easier with support near and far. I hope it helps someone out there!

On Being Sustained

This morning I am in Las Vegas on a week long (read: seven FULL days) vacation with my husband. It is no secret it has been a tough few months for our family, but we get back to kickin’ ass and takin’ names, and decided to take time to breath a little life back into ourselves sans kids.

Currently, I am sitting in a cool room, watching Catfish, drinking coffee my husband hand delivered while someone a few blocks away washes my clothes. When I am done writing, I will probably soak in a bath and get a pedicure while Jason finishes up his work day, then we will go to dinner and walk hand in hand down one of the neatest places I have ever been. If that doesn’t breath life I am not sure what possibly could.

My kids are being kept alive for these seven days by my saint of a sister in Knoxville. She is feeding them, cuddling them, and keeping them entertained – which is no small feat – while I sleep in and indulge. I am so very grateful for her.

Being without kids in an awesome place allows me a little time to write about the big feelings I had when moving. Truthfully, the blisters on my feet from walking more than 50,000 steps since we got here Friday also semi-forces me to take a little bit of a day off from sightseeing. I have tried many times to write about leaving Tallahassee and settling in Knoxville but have always stopped. The tears flow readily, the kids interrupt, and while overall, it is a choice I am very happy with, it is a choice I am still processing.  When I think about our lives since last July, there is still a lot of confusion and “how did that happen?” Figuring those things out while trying to build our new life is a lot of emotional work. I like to avoid emotional work. It’s too… emotional…

BUT.

Despite the confusion at the domino effect that started with Jason voluntarily leaving his job leading to us ultimately moving is not 100% understood just yet, I do now fully understand what it means to be sustained.

For many years, I believed that being sustained meant people found you worthy of their approval. You got their vote and in turn their “support.” In addition to a skewed definition of sustaining, I also bought into the idea that as a fat woman, I was not allowed to need support. My needs were not valid simply because of my body size. That the moments support was offered were some sort of social test of my ability to be self-reliant. That I was not worthy of anyone’s backing or approval anyways. That idea has been reinforced by personal and social interactions for many years, but those are painful sad stories and this is a happy post. This way of thinking has been detrimental in many ways; mostly it has resulted in me becoming a help-refusing, militantly organized, one step ahead of everything all the time person that get things done alone. The flip side of that is that I often feel isolated, resentful, overwhelmed and forgotten. It’s not a pretty picture, but it is one I see and am working on.

The challenges we faced last year were not things I/we could do alone – no matter how hard or how much I/we wanted to. This was not a case of me needing to simply swallow my pride and ask for help. This was not a case of needing to accept the help being offered. There were times I was physically needed in 3 places at once – after not sleeping for days, having no money for resources, or time to even shower. People saw that and offered profusely! No, this was a matter of me reconciling that relying on other people was safe; that the people offering help were not doing so with nefarious intentions. They did not want to hurt me – they genuinely wanted to help.

It wasn’t about approval, power, or social control at all. It was about people who loved me seeing me in need and wanting to fill that need. Pure and simple.

And just to be clear there were moments I was shamed for it. I was accused of using and manipulating people. I was called stupid and lazy. I was called a fat and negligent mother. I was reminded that I didn’t even have a full-time job, so how dare I need help… Rude, right? But I guess bitches gotta bitch about something…

But those terrible things people tried to hurt me with were no match for the outpouring of genuine, loving support and service. So, jokes on the people who are jerks, right? Turns out, a lot of folks love me and my family.

This is what I learned from Jason being without work for 6 months. From driving Uber until 4 a.m. and still getting kids ready for school by 8:00 so we could pay bills. From starting a catering business and growing it, then immediately having to close it because of our move. From selling a house with a spouse 1,087 miles away. From having the flu at the same time as my kids the week of Christmas. From leaving the home I loved for reasons I’m not quite sure of… What I learned is how to withstand. To continue. To persevere.

And I learned the way I have been doing those things – ALONE – sucks. Letting people in. Letting them love you. Letting them see your dirty floor and handing them the broom… That vulnerability saved us because we finally saw how much people really love us. It restored a significant amount of my faith in humanity.

It was my friend Danielle letting me keep a freezer full of food in her garage while we moved. It was my mom’s friend Bill working in my yard for three days straight to give my home curb appeal to sell. It was Amy coming to paint my shutters. It was my sister coming to stay with me for an entire week to pack, move, paint and finish staging my house. It was my mom sleeping at our house multiple nights so Jason and I could both Uber until the early hours of the morning. It is Patty sitting in my living room and just talking to me when I didn’t know what else to do. It was Kim coming over with her infectious laugh to remind me how amazing Knoxville is, and how much she would love to be there. It was Marquesas keeping my children for 12 hours on a Saturday, right after she started a new job, so I could move heavy furniture without children underfoot all day. Our friends Lee and Tim letting us park a truck full of stuff in their driveway when our storage unit was full. My friend Anette and her family packing on multiple occasions with us. It is my Brother in Law, Dane, driving our car through the night all the way to Tennessee – despite being incredibly sick – to turn around and immediately fly back home from Knoxville. It was Jason eating Ramen and PB&J in New Jersey so we could have a little extra money for pizza or Chik Fil A because there was so much going on, that is what my kids lived on for a couple of months. It is my little sister having us in her home for some holiday cheer since we didn’t even put up a Christmas tree this year. It is all the people who volunteered to and watched my kids. It is the women at my sister’s church welcoming me to their ladies’ activities with open arms. It was Leo’s school in Tally selecting us as their holiday family to bless – giving us gift cards and encouragement at a time when I couldn’t even take a shower. It is the homeschool community we are building in Knoxville.

It was every text of concern. Every hug offered. Every meal delivered. Every thought you had for us – we felt it. It carried us, and we owe some of this upswing to you!

This is the part of writing this that produces tears in me – and always will. To recollect what love as an action word is, I need only to look at my life from August to present. Whatever guides this universe saw me painted into a corner for 6 months. My hand was forced to allow people to carry me. My anxiety was at all time high at the most stressful moment of my life. And all these people stepped in to hold me – and my family – up when we could not.

I have learned that being sustained is not about if people agree with you or find you worthy. The ones who view sustaining others in that light are the same ones who had negative reactions to me being sustained; their lives are bitter and sad. Rather, being sustained is when people step in knowing what  you need before you do. When they don’t even hesitate to take their own time and resources to give to you. When they don’t even ask your permission and they just do.

I learned that feeling worthy or being worthy have no effect on whether or not one can actually feel sustained. And I think that is a baby step towards opening ourselves to being loved and loving ourselves. As we allow ourselves to be loved by others, we find the good in hard times.

And we all have hard times, right? If you are like me at all and are afraid of being ridiculed for not being able to do it all on your own, I highly recommend being vulnerable in those difficult moments you experience. Modern parenting – especially if you aren’t cookie cutter – is hard. You are under a microscope all the time! Being vulnerable is a signal to those who genuinely love you to step in. To shower you with love and support when you simply cannot move forward because of the weight on your shoulders. If people don’t offer support or if they are cruel the way I experienced (which is a risk, I’ll be frank!) at least it’s one less Christmas card to send, right?

To those who sustained us, thank you. Your love defines what it means to have a tribe, and we have a damn good one.

GOTTADOITALLRIGHTNOW

When you are a writer at heart who hasn’t been able to write in a while, it is hard to start again. There is simply so much you want to say. So many feelings you want people to have when they see your words and process them through their brain. But, you don’t want to write a novel that no one reads. You don’t want to topic jump and have a confusing, too long mess of paragraphs that convey nothing of sentiment.

So, I hadn’t written has become I haven’t written becomes I don’t write. And then I realized it was an important part of me. I just couldn’t decide if I wanted to write about how much love we felt when we moved. Or what I learned from Jason not having a job for 6 months. About the guilt I have felt for moving my kids away from their friends and the only home they have ever known. About Jason working abroad for 3 months. What about a post about how resilient my kids are and how they have inspired me day after day to look at the world as a beautiful place that has so much to offer? I could write about how looking for a new house and had created a lot of feelings about what “home” means to me. How about my body struggles and feelings of self-consciousness that come with being in new settings frequently. Feeling on the outside no matter where I am. Confusion. Fear. Hope. Optimism…

I have so many things to say about all these things. So, here I sit. Adaline is in P.E. at the local Y since we switched to homeschooling when we moved. I have a coffee and no company today. My computer has battery and I hear Eminem playing from the group fit room. He’s telling me that “success is my only muthaf*ckin’ option” so I better write something… I have no excuse not to. And Eminem said so…

I’ll recap to start. We have been in Knoxville three months now. We visited Tallahassee last week and all cried half the drive back. Tallahassee certainly still felt like home, but we are reminding ourselves we only visited the things we love, and the wound of moving was still pretty fresh. In retrospect, a visit this soon was probably poor planning on my part. We can add that to the list of mistakes I have made as a mom! What else? Oh, Jason is finally home after being gone three months. He is working from the comfort of the couch and basketball shorts until August, then we will decide what is next on that front. Adaline is thriving in the homeschool community here. We have offered on two houses to have them not happen for different reasons. We have had snow, sunburns, and the kids first plane ride.

Perhaps the biggest reason I am able to write again is because I have the mental capacity to do so without breaking down, starting and stopping, then obsessively proofing for weeks. Why? Well, I take a lovely little 10 mg pill every morning that makes the world a little less overwhelming for me. For years, I thought everyone’s mind asked rhetorical questions about every possible hypothetical situation out there. I assumed that people weren’t “prepared for the worst, expecting the best, and pleasantly pleased with the middle” situations that occur everyday. I have always been a reliable person who is able to get things done. The reason for that is my anxiety doesn’t allow me much wiggle room. My brain is compartmentalized to a fault. I have crippling anxiety. Let me give you an example…

On Sunday nights, I like to sit down and plan out my week. Not a big deal – a lot of people do this. But planning for a person with anxiety becomes a situation to “prepare” for every possible scenario for every event you are planning for that week. Even ones that are far fetched. Then, because I am a human with three small humans relying on me for everything, I get overwhelmed at how much there is to do in order for the week to go smoothly. Sunday night quickly becomes a setting of “if I don’t get the laundry done rightthisverysecond, we can’t go to the park on Thursday, and if the kids don’t get to go the the park, then the kids won’t be able to play sports in college because we didn’t go to the park enough.”

Trust me. I know this sounds incredibly ridiculous. See, a lot of people assume anxiety and depression are the same. They aren’t. My anxiety led me to be angry towards, resentful of, and isolate myself from the people I love the most. I am not a sad person who can’t get out of bed. I am a rage cleaning, militantly organized monster – whose kids were afraid to ask for a snack outside of the wrong cabinet. The rational side of my brain knows that these thoughts are absurd; that our lives will continue if we are a couple minutes late or if the house is messy because the kids are playing happily. But that’s the beast of anxiety – you can’t rationalize it.

Have you ever met a person who likes to complain? And every time you offer a simple or reasonable solution to the problem, they have another reason why your solution just won’t work for them? Yeah, that’s anxiety, but with yourself. Here. I drew you a picture. Notice, I have angry eyebrows and not tears…

My anxiety makes me think if things are done a certain way at a certain time, my world, and the world of my family, will fall over the edge of a huge cliff. And I was tired of everything in my wonderful life feeling like it was balancing on the edge of a cliff and I was the only one there to keep it from toppling.

I think the hardest part about all this was simply coming to the understanding that not everyone thinks this way. I have honestly lived my entire life assuming everyone walks around feeling rushed constantly and scared of possible consequences of countless hypothetical situations that they may not be prepared for. In this way, I have held people to an unrealistic and impossible standard. Soon, once I have corrected some of the rage monster damage I have done with my kids, I will address the guilt I feel for assumuing my brain was the standard and not the exception.

There is no pride to be had in living the way I was. To suffer silently as my life passed me by. To cry as I cleaned the house on a beautiful Saturday while my family enjoyed being together outside. To be alone with a perfect family and loving friends. It just wasn’t right.

Side note: please don’t think Jason doesn’t help. My anxiety is rooted in OCD which does not allow me to allow him to do much. Seriously. My mind insists in me doing everything a certain way…

I am not sure if I will have this forever. If this is a part of parenting small kids. A result of the crazy expectations society has of parents, and more specifically, mothers. If my hormones are changing or I have had too much coffee in the last 2 years. But I am sure that I feel better than I have in years, and I feel capable of tackling the daily challenges of life one day at a time now. I can read my children a story without having to clean the house first. We can go to the park before the menu is planned. I can help my kids, my husband, and myself without feeling like there is something more important I should be preparing for. I can sleep at night without my mind tricking me into thinking I am wasting valuable time. I allow myself to slow down when needed. To laugh when I want to. And to stop when I am done. To smile when I deserve it.

I am living my life now. Not just organizing it.