I'm Still Me

Last weekend I went with my friend, Missy, to visit her family in Tennessee, for her grandparents' 60th anniversary. The first time I went with her, almost four years ago, was to attend her cousin's wedding. The family took me under their wing and hasn't let me out from under it since- not that I've wanted to escape. I grew up in a large, close knit immediate family. But I was only close to one cousin, and he moved north when I was still young. So, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins- those relationships are somewhat foreign to me. They've only just begun to be restored over the past few years with the introduction of social media and smartphones.

To be invited and accepted into a family as "one of the kids"- that's huge to me. For the last ten years, I've been a grown up. With an adult role in an adult world. I am someone's wife, someone's mother. I've been buying the groceries, paying the bills, doing the laundry, driving to appointments. But last weekend, I went to my surrogate family's house, and I got to be a kid. I didn't have to cook. I didn't have to lay out school clothes, pack lunches, or give baths. I stayed up late with the girls, watched TV shows and curled up on the couch in my pajamas. I shared a bathroom mirror, putting on makeup before church, and rode in the back seat listening to Lorde while we talked about boys. I felt a tiny shift in my soul, one that made my eyes well up and my chest heave a deep sigh. I thought to myself, "I am still me." See, maybe I'm an ungrateful wife. Maybe I'm a restless mother. But the truth is- and you know I always get sucked into telling the truth somehow- I've lost myself somewhere over the past decade. Many women find themselves, discover their strengths and who they're meant to be, while learning to be a wife and mother. Most times I feel the opposite. All I've learned is what I'm overwhelmed by, what I tell myself over and over that I could do better at. In the course of belonging to so many other human beings, I have lost belonging to myself.

And last weekend, I found myself again. Down there, with them, with this family who has adopted me and loved me and cherished me, I am no one but myself. I'm not Jeremy's wife. I'm not Ashton's, Chloe's, and Atleigh's mother. I'm not even Missy's friend. I'm me. I'm Mary. And yes, a tiny part tells me (usually with the voice of the Facebook and Pinterest masses) what a terrible person I am for treasuring that time separated from that other identity. What kind of wife am I? What sort of terrible mother could I possibly be? But the other part of me, the part that suddenly remembered last weekend that I exist- I, Mary Elizabeth Rothwell Smoot, with God as my witness, I EXIST- my lord, I just teared up again- that part is singing. That part is joyful in the reminder of my identity in Christ, in myself. I am not the sum of the parts I'm surrounded by. Yes, I am my husband's and my children's. Nothing can change that. I don't want to change that. But I also belong to myself. And remembering that, owning that belonging, has made me more content than I can remember being in a long time. I came home and washed and folded all the laundry. I've scrubbed my bathroom and kitchen top to bottom. I've sung songs to my kids and danced with them and read and watched movies. I am more myself than I've ever been. 

And so, to my family in Tennessee, my grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins: thank you. Thank you. Thank you. You can't know what your embrace has done for me. By accepting me as I am, you helped me remember who I am. You gave me back to myself, and consequently, to my husband and kids. If there was nothing else you'd ever done for me, that would be enough. Through you, God shifted me back into my own skin. And it isn't the restraining, ill-fitting skin I've always thought it was. It's glorious, wonderful, comfortable. It's me. 

{{Photo Dump}}

I haven't been taking as many photos as usual lately. The weather has been miserable and my house is not very well lit. So here's to spring and sunshine and saying cheese!