It’s So Girly

Recently, a quote from Chloe came up on my Timehop. It was probably almost 10 years old; she had said, on a particularly beautiful spring morning, “Mom, it’s so girly out today.”

That’s stuck with me over the past few weeks. There is nothing inherently wrong with being feminine.  Honestly, it’s our birthright, and we should own it. 

I grew up one of two daughters in a family full of boys. My dad will be the first to tell you— so this isn’t me calling him out— that my sister and I kind of fell by the wayside while he busied himself being the father of sons. The only reason I can say that without bitterness, or baggage, or what have you, is because my dad has worked his butt off to become a daughter dad in my adulthood, and it shows. In his life, and in mine. 

Growing up, I wished I was in the cool guy group. The cool guy group got my dad’s investment. I didn’t embrace my girly-ness because I didn’t know that my inherent femininity has so much value. Kingdoms have risen and fallen because of women. I didn’t know that back then. 

There’s good news— aside from my learning to love who I am— slowly but surely, the girls in my family are overtaking the dudes. Besides my two girls, I have SIX nieces (one on the way, due in October-- I just found out that my brother's new baby is a girl, and her name is Charlotte, Charlie for short!)... as opposed to the only two second generation boys. TAKE THAT. On my husband’s side of the family, there are nine grandkids. Only three of them are girls. 

Bear with me, I’m circling back around. Gals, there’s a reason we have songs declaring we run the world. Obviously we don’t literally run the world, but we have so much power and influence. 

And even more than that, becoming the mother of daughters, and the aunt of six nieces, I’m consistently reminded of one of my favorite passages in the Bible, Titus 2, instructing the older women to mother and mentor the younger women. I’m paraphrasing here, but it says older women are to teach “what is good” to younger women. It doesn’t give an age qualification. If you are older than any woman, young woman, girl, child— guess what? You can mother them. You can mentor a fellow woman. Nothing has brought that home to me more than living a life surrounded by girls from the age of 15 to the age of 6 days old, to roughly 6 months in utero: I can mother and mentor and strengthen and empower and cheer on and trail blaze and love and love and love.

It probably seems disgustingly narcissistic to quote myself, but several years ago I was able to go on a U.S. ministry trip, and towards the end, my group met with a few older women. I’ll never forget how struck I was, how small I felt, being surrounded by those women who had lived and loved longer than and farther than I had even looked ahead. The words I wrote regarding that meeting have been circling in my head for weeks. So right now, I’m reposting those passages for myself, for you, but most of all for my girls (all seven of them, daughters and nieces combined). 

“There are days when I think I won't make it. But then I see women like you... Your adventures, your faith, your survival, your hospitality, your tender care of your husbands, the way you've raised your children in Christ, your hunger and determination to seek out the word of God, your miracles.... You've made it. You've made it. You're making it. You're running your race, and you're winning. You're winning it. And for women like me, who are miles behind you in the race, you're an inspiration. If you're winning, I can win. I can do it. So thank you. Thank you." I looked at each woman, thanking her in turn, my throat swelling tight with awe and love. This, then, is the great cloud of witnesses referred to in Hebrews. How can I not run the race set before me? How can I grow weary in doing good? With these mighty women of faith cheering me on, women who have wrestled against the odds and won, women who have blazed new trails and didn't burn in the blazing of them ...... I'll run ahead for the joy set before me. The joy set before all of us. I'll run for the women who have run the path in front of me, clearing the thorns away and smoothing the ruts. I'll run for the women and girls behind me, whose cloud of witnesses I'll be a part of. Oh, I'll cheer them on, I'll cup my hands and scream their names, "You can do it! You're making it, darling! You can win, you can win, you can win!" 

Oh, we can win. Don't give up. Don't stop running. We can win.”

Chloe. Atleigh. Cassie. Hannah. Darcie. Isla. Banks. Charlotte. I promise you with my entire soul, with every corner of my mama’s heart, to be a part of your cloud of witnesses, cheering you on at every single turn. And if you turn in the wrong direction, I’ll love and love you and love you, gently grasp you by the shoulders to help you find your way again, and to help you lead the way with the rest of the women who have blazed the trail before you. Be brave, darlings. You are so strong. You are so worthy. You are filled to the brim with fire and with ferocity. You will thrive. You will grow in grace and godliness. And if you find a younger gal to love and lead and blaze a path for, don’t hesitate. You got this, babes. You are surrounded by so many women with so many stories and so much wisdom. You are a freaking trailblazer. Lead the way. We'll follow, and our love and overwhelming pride will be ever at your backs and surrounding you on all sides. 

YOU CAN WIN.

Snow Day In A Miraculous World

The Now Project
January 1st-7th

Last month, I hopped on board with a fellow Instagrammer's brain child, called The Now Project, which was officially launched with the new year. The concept is to try and capture moments during our week, post photos, and write about them. I'm not sure I'll be able to keep this up all year, especially the writing part, since I tend towards laziness, but I'm going to try. The hardest part will probably be picking just one "moment" per week.

However, if I have to choose one moment from the first week of January, I choose our crazy, out of nowhere snow day. Living in southeast Virginia, a few blocks from the Chesapeake Bay, we don't see a lot of snow. We get humidity aplenty. Mosquitos, hurricanes, 70 degree rainy autumn days, patriotic parades, cannons left over from our Revolutionary and Civil War years, but not a lot of snow. So for us to get 10" dumped on us in a single day in the midst of blizzard conditions is pretty noteworthy.

Full disclosure: I loathe snow. I hate being cold. I hate the wet, and the mud, and the layers, I hate all of it. But my kids are all still young enough to glory in the beauty (and let's be honest, the novelty) of a winter wonderland, so I suck it up at least once a year and let them spend a half hour preparing to go out in the snow for a total of fifteen minutes.

This past week, on January 5th, was also Chloe's 11th birthday. I usually do a birthday photo session with my kids, and this time I decided we should take advantage of this rare, snowy occurrence for Chloe's big day. Which means- yes!- I too went out in the snow. Wonder of wonders! I won't post all of her photos here because I want to share them in a separate blog for her, but I will throw a couple in.

All of that said, here's the thing. I'm taking a chance with this. I don't know anyone else in this group I've chosen to be a part of, which in itself is a big step. But it's one I'm eager, albeit nervous and scared and kind of freaking out and fighting social anxiety and-- well, I could go on and on about that-- it's one I'm eager to take.  I'm choosing an opportunity to push myself out of my lazy ruts that I create for myself when I could be creating something beautiful instead. I'll work at becoming that version of myself that I want to see. I'll drop the ball sometimes this year, absolutely I will. But my main goal for 2017 is this mantra: "No more self sabotaging." That includes settling for subpar writing and blogging, photographing, and passing up chances to record this little tiny space of time my kids and my family are occupying right now. We live in a miraculous world, friends; one where anyone can instantly share what sandwich they ordered for lunch. Don't my kids, their memories, and their lives deserve more recognition and respect than a sandwich, even if it did come from Which Wich?

As far as it depends on me, my kids will be a part of this miraculous 2017. And I will be the record keeper of our small, wondrous, everyday miracles.

Happy New Year, Happy Snow Day, and Happy Miracle Choosing.

-M

All photos © 2017 Mary Smoot
Shot with Nikon D800

How To Achieve Perfect Family Christmas Photos: Box House Edition

Today was the day my son and husband have been dreading all year: family Christmas photo day. Although Jeremy can grin and bear it, and maybe even eventually crack a genuine smile, wringing one out of Ashton is almost impossible. While his lips may say, "Okay, okay, I'm smiling!", his eyes tell me another story. Most of it with words he would never ever say aloud to me, if he wanted to keep that thatch of goldilocks he prizes so much. 

After a lazy Saturday morning of telling myself over and over, "I really need to get up and start getting things together for pictures", and half-hearted prompts for the kids to do things like shower, brush hair, gather clothes, etc., I finally started rushing around at 2pm, realizing I would swiftly lose my light if I didn't get moving STAT. This is my standard M.O., and seems to have worked for me fairly well in life (She said sarcastically).

I started racing around, while Ashton complained about having to actually leave his video game screens on a Saturday, and the girls tussled and shrieked over the bathroom mirror. I checked my car for my tripod and camera. Tripod, check. Camera... Camera. Where is my camera?? I hunted through every room in the house, which took me about one minute. Then I called Missy, who confirmed that I had, indeed, left my camera in her car after our photo session the other day. So we packed everyone in the car to head over to Missy's house. Halfway down our street, I finally tuned in to Ashton's shouting, saying that his seat (in the third row) was not up. He was just squatting in the back amongst the blankets and my tripod. Jeremy threw the car in park while I ran around back to fix the seats, hollering the whole time that he was about to miss the light and then he'd have to sit through it all over again and couldn't I hurry?? In my hurrying, after safely adjusting Ashton's seat, I attempted to jump directly into mine, a la Dukes of Hazzard. That did not go so well. 

We picked up my camera, and headed to one of my favorite photo spots, Fort Monroe. Although I had envisioned something grassy and woodsy looking, after realizing I wouldn't have enough light to search for such a place, I settled for industrial and decayed looking. 

I started out snapping photos of the kids first, while Jeremy found some fellow bikers to talk to. I have found that this is the best way to work during family photo time: get the kids' out of the way first, before they start melting down and nitpicking each other to pieces. Jeremy finding something to do was a definite plus.

After I had rushed the kids through their pictures, I added Jeremy and myself. Here comes the tricky part. I have the tripod and the remote. The remote can be finicky, and for some reason, I can never get it to do what I want without obviously and directly pointing it at the camera. Jeremy has learned to wield it a little better. Following a few prideful failed attempts on my part, I surrendered the remote to my husband and let him handle it.

Out of all of our (many, many) shots, I have one- one- photo of us all looking and smiling.

The rest look like this:

Lastly, I wanted to get a few pictures of Jeremy and me together. After having some issues with the camera focusing properly while on the tripod, a bitter argument broke out amongst the kids, each of them determined that they could take our photos better than the other. I handed the camera to Ashton, being oldest, tallest, and (I thought- more the fool me) most capable of taking direction. His first set of photos were focused completely on the corrugated metal of our backdrop. After telling him that I wanted our whole bodies in the photos, he took a dozen 3/4 shots and a few others from the knees up- would that be 1/4? This went on for several rounds of photos, with me correcting him each time. Each time, he defended himself. How he could assume that my entire body began just above my kneecaps, I don't know. Eventually, after several threats on my part, and much huffing and grunting on his part, he managed to get a few full body shots. 

While all of this was happening, the girls had run to the nearby playground to swing. As we were taking our last shots, I heard Atleigh set up a hue and cry. My mother senses being immediately on high alert, I immediately told my husband, "Go see what her problem is", while I took down my camera equipment. Priorities. 

Atleigh continued to walk toward us, crying with every step, while Chloe, my little grapevine, raced ahead to tell me that Atleigh had gotten a sand burr stuck on her tights. Definitely a job for Dad, who unstuck the burr while lovingly saying, "Oh, get over yourself! Don't you think I've gotten sand burrs too??"

We all piled into the car, heaving sighs of relief, Atleigh still sniffling, Ashton still rolling his eyes, Jeremy and I both ready for a beer (or three). 

And that, my friends, is how to do family Christmas photos.

You may expect your Christmas cards in the mail soon.

Let's Be Real Here

This morning, I inadvertently stumbled across a perfect Instagram feed. You know the kind I'm talking about. 20 somethings with a one year old wearing arrow print leggings and a fox graphic tee shirt that probably cost more than my kids' last three outfits combined. Her hair is long and artfully braided into messy plaits, her mom clothes are all brand name and flattering.They live in a tiny house on the beach. They have white couches and potted plants all around their tiny house. White couches. And potted plants. WITH A ONE YEAR OLD. 

As I lay there in my bed-which is in my living room, remember?-and kept scrolling, all the time telling myself, "Stop this. Stop it right now, look away RIGHT. NOW.", I felt myself sinking into doldrums. After several minutes, I finally threw the phone down. Then I sat up and looked around my house. My house that I would be ashamed to have many of my closest friends come into. Sure, it's tiny. Tiny houses are so "in" these days, right? What the hipsters don't know- or won't admit- is the struggles of a family of five living on top of each other. 

I have baskets of laundry everywhere. EVERY. WHERE. Some are clean. Some are dirty. Some are outgrown and need to be gone through. 

As I got up this morning and began the grueling task of getting my kids up for school, I noted the sink and its surrounding counters full of last night's (okay, okay, and the night's before that too) dishes. The bathroom still showed the signs of the previous night's bedtime prep, hot pink toothpaste smeared in the sink, splatters on the mirror, used braces rubber bands, empty toilet paper rolls and damp towels on the floor. The main living area- also my bedroom- that I worked so hard all night on Friday to clean, organize, and decorate for Christmas looked like I had never touched it. 

Friends, I'll be honest with you all. I cried. I'm crying right now. And I'm asking myself, what is wrong with me? The other moms can do it. I know they can, because Instagram tells me so! In a world where everyone wants to be beautiful, or rich, or famous, all I want is to be organized. It's true. In my weak moments, all I want is to be an Instagram mom. 

I always dreaded my kids growing up like I did. Too many kids, not enough room, laundry everywhere, grab the bag of cereal on the way out the door because we didn't make breakfast, hollers of, "There's no more toilet paper!!" from the bathroom and Mom making a mad dash to the car to look for fast food napkins. Because, oh yeah, we're out of napkins too, from the LAST time we ran out of toilet paper, remember? I didn't get my hair washed today, and as I'm sitting in my car preparing to go into my girls' school for honor roll ceremony, I realize that the weight in my purse that I took for my makeup bag is actually a bag of Christmas candy. 

This is my life. Hair unwashed, makeup-less face about to be shown in all its glory to various members of the PTA, and while I cried over the makeup bag, the Christmas candy is providing some comfort. 

This is my life. Holding back tears while I dig through laundry baskets for just ONE clean shirt that isn't wrinkled beyond recognition, biting out, "I don't KNOW where any socks are, do I look like I have my s*** together in life??" to a fellow tiny house dweller (I won't say which, so the judging stays below sea level). Diet Pepsi and Nestlé Crunch bells for breakfast. And knowing, that when I get back home, it's all going to be there waiting for me, staring me in the face, screaming accusations that I can not and never will get myself together in life, and everyone else with their white walled, white furnished houses and their minimalist styled collage walls, their artfully ripped jeans and their homegrown gardens and artisan coffees obviously have gotten some memos that I must have missed while in the trenches. 

This is NOT a cry for help. Please, please do not call or message me offering to help with laundry, to give me organizing tips, or recommend meal planning apps. That's not what I'm trying to accomplish here. 

You all know, or at least I hope you do, that I have never tried to be anything but honest. Real. Not pretty. Not Instagram worthy. Although I would almost kill to be organized, what I have is reality. 

I get a lot of compliments on my honesty. I never quite know how to respond to those. A thank you doesn't seem fitting. A kindly cloaked chastisement of, "what kind of world do we live in where honesty is associated with bravery?" seems a bit harsh. Not everyone wants to put their crap out there, I get it. I don't necessarily want to put mine out there, but somehow it always ends up happening so I've learned to live with it. And the amount of comments and texts I get after a post like this prove to me that our social media driven society is sadly lacking in reality. Part of that is because we flock in droves to the pretty things. The Instagram account that sent me into this spiral has over fifty thousand followers. Fifty. Thousand. Not because the account is honest, gritty, this is real life and I'm living it the best I can. Because it's pretty. And it is. Oh, it's gorgeous. Light soaked and peaceful and pretty. And I'm sure- I hope, at least- that this beautiful woman and mother, with her thigh gap and heather joggers and floppy brimmed felt hats, her baby with his $75 wooden toys- I'm sure that she would be appalled to know that her beautiful life and photos sent me and others like me into an existential tailspin. We're all in this together, after all. 

But what I'm suggesting is this: instead of pressing our noses up to the sparkly glass windows of others' perfect social media lives, while at the same time being shocked into admiration and grudging respect for those like me- the ugly honest ones- let's ALL be honest. Stop perpetuating the myth that perfection is attainable while praising those who admit they will never attain it. We've embraced a false life, buying in to it like it's a product we can own. Like those feminine product commercials-- like I'm really going to be dancing in a field of white daisies wearing a white dress on day two of my period?? Ain't no tampon in the world, ladies, am I right?? And yet while we scoff at unrealistic marketing ploys, we swallow whole the white daisies/white dress lives of those around us, wanting so desperately for it to be true because if they can do it, there's got to be a snowball's chance in Dixie that I can too, right?? No. No more than I could dance in a field in the midst of debilitating cramps.    

Friends, what ARE we, if we cannot be honest? I am so passionate about this. My Instagram feed will probably never have tens of thousands of followers. You won't look at it and in first glance see a uniformity that is aesthetically pleasing. You will not find only the perfect moments captured and shared. 

What you will find is me. Ofttimes overwhelmed, occasionally makeup-less and hair unwashed, surrounded by never ending piles of laundry and dishes, homework, temper tantrums, chaos and noise, laughter, tears, laziness, spurts of panic, love. What you'll find is LIFE, lived in front of you, without social media's "perfect" filter applied. You may not like it. That's totally fine. Most days, I don't like it either. But I'm living it. I invite you to live it with me.  

Taking Advice

Today has been a cold, rainy, dreary Virginia day. The kids and I are cooped up in the house due to a flat tire incident late last week. Normally this would be an ideal day for being cooped up. It probably still can be. But I've been frustrated and irritated with random situations today, and so I refuse to be cozy and comfortable for now. 

One of my best friends, and adopted cousin, gave me what is undoubtedly sage advice a little while ago, in response to some of my more extended rantings [::Pause:: Can I just say real quick how grateful I am for friends who listen to my grumblings, validate me when needed, and gently and lovingly correct me when necessary? I went almost my whole life without friends like these. And now I have a whole squad of them, and I am constantly overcome with gratitude and awe for them. Never, ever doubt it, girls ::Unpause::]. She said, "Just breathe, pop in some worship music, sit by your Christmas tree with coffee or tea and relax." My immediate response, internally and externally, was to yell, "BUT I HAVE KIDS, CHELSEA!" It's true. I do have kids, in abundance. In recent years, our situation has been even less private than normal, since we've had our bed in our main living space for two years in order to allow Ashton his own room. 

In the space of a heartbeat, I saw how it all would play out. 

Me to kids: "Hey guys, in a few minutes I'm going to have you all go to your rooms so I can have a few minutes alone. I just need some time to be still and quiet."

Kids, oh so sweetly: "Sure, Mom!"

Mom brews coffee, straightens main living space/bedroom quickly, turns on music, settles by Christmas tree. Hey, this isn't so bad! It's working!

Enter dogs: "Hey there mom what are you doing why are you on the floor what are you drinking do you need company I bet you need company let me just sit right here oh sorry did I hit you in the face that's ok hey what are you drinking hey can I sit right here no wait maybe this spot is better so wait I changed my mind oh man itchy spot hang on a second ok that's better can I sit here hey what is that you're drinking".

Son comes out of room: "This is why I had to turn off my video games?? I was in the middle of a raid!"

Oldest daughter: "Moooommm, Atleigh will not help me clean the room like you said! She's just playing with Play-Doh and we all know how you feel about Play-Doh! I know you said you want to relax for a few minutes, but you can't do that knowing she has Play-Doh, right?? I'll just go get it from her."

Loud shrieks and thumps emitting from girls' bedroom, punctuated with, "But Mom said--!" "You're not the boss of me, Sissy!"

Youngest daughter, entering main living space/bedroom with crocodile tears: "MOOOMMMM! Sissy is trying to be the parent! I told her-- oh hey, what are you drinking? I bet you love sitting by the Christmas tree, huh? I bet it's so a-laxing. I wish I could sit by the tree. Let me just-- I can fit... Right... here... Ah! Hey, what are you drinking? Coffee? I don't like coffee much. Can you make me some hot chocolate? With whup cream. And cinnamon. Can you make me some oatmeal, too? This comfy tree makes me want to have some oatmeal. Hey can you scoot over? You're kind of squishing me."

Okay so, in my kids' defense, none of this actually happened (yet). But I saw it all so clearly in that instant, almost as if it had happened. And because of my vain imaginings and my tendency to borrow trouble, I almost cheated myself out of a chance to sit, think, challenge myself, and grow. 

Instead, I decided to take Chelsea's advice. Right now, I'm sitting in a tight little corner by my scrawny little Christmas tree, looking up through its lit branches and remembering how I used to squeeze behind out tree as a child, imagining a tiny island of Christmas calm in a sea of Christmas chaos. I put on one of my all time favorite Christmas albums, Evan Wickham's Christmas Music Vol. 1. [You can listen here, or better yet, purchase here. You won't regret it.] He seamlessly blends Christmas with worship of the Christ child and His holy Father, as all Christmas hymns were originally intended to be. I do have the dogs near me, after some brief tussles to see who get closest to me without actually hiding in my chest cavity. 

Son has not come out once, maybe finally understanding at the ripe old age of 12, that when Mom says she needs alone time, you'd best give her alone time and stat. 

Oldest daughter has come out to tattle on youngest daughter who is not helping to clean, as I predicted. Youngest daughter says she didn't "promise" so she doesn't have to. Insert mini Sermon on the Floor about our yes being yes and our no being no, and aside from that, Mom said so. Youngest daughter asked me why I thought I needed alone time. I'm a mom, and moms have kids, so obviously I love kids, so why send them to their rooms? She also came out on a futile search for Santa, but she only hit the button on the Christmas village a single time, forcing me to sit through a creepy Boris Karloff narration of 'Twas The Night Before Christmas once. 

From the girls' bedroom I can hear occasional giggles over their Disney music soundtrack. Neville kicks and whines in a dream. Ashton will probably stay in his room until I force him out. The kid doesn't know how lucky he is to be the only person in this house who has his own room. 

My coffee is slowly cooling, my butt swiftly going numb, as I write these thoughts out, feeling liberated and elated to be writing at all, feeling guilty and inadequate at my abysmal "blogging" skills. My Christmas album is nearing its end, but I've put it on repeat, unwilling to give it up just yet. In a moment, I'll maybe pull out my bible and devotional, or my journal, and start giving myself some reminders to be grateful, chaos and all. There are too many things to miss out on and regret in this life, if I'm not careful to open my eyes in those moments when they're rolled up in frustration, or loosen my hands when they're clinched into fists in anger, force my lips into a smile when they're turned downward in sadness. Will I regret some things in my life? Probably. Will I regret yelling at my kids when I could have spoken soft words, or tuning them out on car rides when I could have been learning their stories? I'm sure. Will I regret chugging that Moscato di'Asti then chasing it with coffee laced with pumpkin spice creamer right before I started writing this? Undoubtedly. But I will not regret taking my friend's advice today, forcing myself to slow down, breathe deep, laugh at myself a little, and realize that even the best of us (and I am most certainly far from that) could benefit from some wisdom from outside sources once in awhile. So I'm going to pay it forward, and give a little advice. Next time you want to shrug off someone's loving counsel to you, even in something as simple as, "Take a break. Have a coffee. Take a deep breath", think twice about it. It might just be the best decision you've made in awhile.

- M

[[It's been so long since I've done a photo dump, I don't even know where to start. If you follow me on Instagram, you'll have kept track of me somewhat. In case you don't (and you should!) here are some snapshots of Box House Life from the past few months, starting in August.]]

Images copyright @what_if_i_said 2015