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

This Place, Your Home

Sometimes it's hard for me to get started writing. There are so many thoughts and words and emotions, bundled all together in a knot, and it's so hard to pull just one. And usually when I can manage to find one to pull, all the others unravel after it. So I've found, for myself at least, that the best way to start writing is to just START. You know... "Start at the beginning. And when you get to the end, stop."

Right now, there is no end in sight; I'm waist deep in trenches I never thought I'd be in, and I'm still watching this story unfold in front of me. 

Many of you may have followed along with the losses our family has been through these last few months. If you're unfamiliar, you can go on Instagram and search the hashtag #welovefoxhill. See, Fox Hill is a small "city" within the city where we live. It's also where Jeremy grew up, right across the street from his grandparents. And, this year, from April 29, 2016 to September 21, 2016, we lost both of his grandparents. Words can't describe what a hole this has left in our family, in our identity. In some ways, it feels like the ties that have been grounding us have been suddenly cut loose. 

What's worse, my youngest, Atleigh, has had an intense battle facing this loss. Before she even reached 8 years old, she's watched two people she was incredibly close to lowered into the ground. She's attended two funerals. She's placed flowers on two graves. She's witnessed her family, her safe place, struggle with sorrow and displacement and a heavy weightlessness that can only be described as grief. And she has suffered for it. More so than I would ever have imagined. She's developed a stutter. She's faced cruel comments from her classmates, and in some instances, school faculty, words like, "Spit it out", "Why can't you talk?" "You must not be very smart." She's developed anxiety, separation anxiety, fear over routines being changed, fear of CHANGE, period. Anyone who knows Atleigh knows that she has always been completely wide open. Not only does she embrace change, generally she is a catalyst for it. She sings and dances and does whatever she feels is needed to make everyone around her laugh. She is the quintessential class clown. 

Until this year. 

Those who follow my sporadic blogging also know that every year I do a birthday photo session with each of my kids. This year, Atleigh told me emphatically for weeks that she didn't want pictures. She didn't think she could smile "good enough". I didn't push her. I told her that was fine, even when it killed me on the inside. I told her if she changed her mind, that was fine too. I would never make her smile for photos if she didn't feel like it. 

And then, miraculously, last week, almost two weeks after her birthday, she told me she wanted to do the session. So I took her to Target and let her pick out an all new outfit (I don't know about all of you, but an all new outfit is a definite occasion for getting your picture taken, in my book). She chose the entire outfit on her own. Every piece of it was so significant to me, even if she didn't realize it. She chose a hot pink, glittery, floor length tutu that, to me, was a complete representation of who my baby really is on the inside. The shirt she chose says, "Never let anyone dull your sparkle." She chose a fluffy hoodie with the head of a unicorn, golden horn, rainbow mane, and all. In most stories, unicorns represent magic, innocence, purity and joy. And if anyone on God's green earth has the spirit of the unicorn, it's my Atleigh Naomi. Naomi: laughter, joy. Everything she truly is. And that outfit, while seeming small and coincidental to most people, was as holy to me as if God Himself had opened heaven and spoken to me, saying, "Your Naomi is still HERE. I see her. I hear her. I have not forgotten, I WILL NOT forget or forsake her."

I took her out for the photos. She didn't look at me a lot. She didn't smile a lot. A large portion of the photos are of her facing away or running from me. And that's okay. I'm okay with that. 

Later that afternoon, she was humming a refrain from a [completely moronic] Netflix cartoon- a refrain borrowed from Phillip Phillips's song "Home". I told her it was from a real song, and asked her if she'd like to hear it. As soon as I started playing it for her, all the hair on my body stood up. The lyrics say, 

Hold on, to me as we go
As we roll down this unfamiliar road
And although this wave is stringing us along
Just know you’re not alone
'Cause I’m going to make this place your home

Settle down, it'll all be clear
Don't pay no mind to the demons
They fill you with fear
The trouble it might drag you down
If you get lost, you can always be found

Just know you’re not alone
'Cause I’m going to make this place your home

She asked me to play it for her, over and over and over. And so I did. 

And if I've learned anything from this season that we're in right now, this uncertain, unstable, fraught and frayed season, it's that my role is to be her home. Her safe place, more than ever. And to point her to the Safest Place that we are all invited to live in. She can always be found. She's not alone. I will make this place her home. 

Happy 8th birthday to my littlest love, my unicorn soul, my lioness spirit. Your Safe Place sees you. Your Safe Place is ready for you. This Place, your Home. 

{{Here are a few of my favorites from Atleigh's unicorn 8th birthday photo session. Regardless of the valley we're traveling through, I think this will always be one of my favorite birthday sessions. She is magic.}}

*All photos © 2016 Mary Smoot/@what_if_i_said*

Hurricane Hormone

I finally got around to taking Ashton's 12th birthday photos earlier this week. What with him being sick on his actual birthday, then the hubbub of the holidays, I'm pretty proud that I got them done at all. I managed to get both of the girls' sessions done, but I haven't blogged either of them. You see? Motherhood is just a constant balance of choosing which child will get neglected today. (Kidding! I'm kidding.... Mostly.)

Ashton... Where do I begin? I've been kind of whining a lot lately about my battles with my preteen. Ashton has always been old for his age. To tell the truth, his "teenage angst" began several years ago. At least, that's what I thought. Nothing could have prepared me for the hurricane of hormones that now resides in my precious baby boy's bedroom. Most days, I feel like I'm just caught and pulled along in the powerful gale that is my pubescent boy. Most days, I'm just clutching my hair in bewilderment, trying to keep whatever shreds of sanity I have left after the toddler years inside my exhausted brain. Most days, I have emotional crying jags more than he does. Because, just like with every emotion he experiences since the moment he entered this world, I am right there with him, feeling them, hating them, loving them. One of the potential downsides of being an empathetic INFP personality, I suppose. So this crazy roller coaster he rides everyday has me strapped in right beside him. 

Is it hard? 

Yes. 

Is it exhausting and overwhelming?

Absolutely. 

Would I trade it back for those sleepless nights, diaper changes, and temper tantrums?

Eh.... Yes. Sometimes. A lot of times, okay??

But, this is where we are now. This is the season we're in, and I'm here to love him fierce, to hug him hard in the moments he'll let me, and to respect him with personal space in the moments he won't. I'm here to mirror the type of adult he can become, on the other side of this godawful maelstrom he's caught in right now. 

And, you know, it isn't all bad- I know I make it sound like it is. But we still have laughter, and smiles, and dance parties (although he'll swear up and down that he hates to dance. Even when I catch him at it every time I turn around). We still have our reading time, and movie time, and just plain talking time. In some ways, I'm enjoying him even more, enjoying this little sneak peek into the relationship we can have as he grows older. And every once in awhile, he'll look at me with those crinkled blue eyes, and I'll see my baby boy looking at me all over again. Those moments make all the others seem so small. Those moments more than repay me for all the others. Those moments are the ones I'll hang on to.

{{Here are a few shots from Ashton's 12th birthday photo session. It's mostly a lot of sarcastic smirking, exasperated glaring, and stone-faced staring. But on reviewing them while editing, I decided not to try and redo the whole shoot. After all, I'm a huge proponent of being honest, of showing your messy life. And pictures of a happy go lucky 12 year old Ashton, more likely than not, would not be a true representation of where he is right now. One day, I'll be able to show him these pictures and say, "Remember when you were 12, and thought that everything was awful all the time? No? Oh. Well I just so happen to have some photos right here..."}}

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.