#momfail

One day, when Atleigh was a toddler, I noticed minuscule slices across several of her fingers, a little larger than paper cuts. I realized a few minutes later that she had waddled into the bathroom and grabbed my razor off of the tub. I started making sure I kept my razor on the side of the tub closest to the wall after that. 

Chloe was invited to a birthday party when she was about 7 or 8. She told me beforehand that her head itched— we were dog-sitting at the time and one of the dogs liked to sleep up on her pillow— I told her she was fine, brought her to her friend’s house, and discovered, upon helping her out of the car, that her head was covered in fleas. 

Ashton has an inch long scar hiding under his mop of hair, from the time he jumped off of his grandma’s couch and straight into the wooden molding around her fireplace and ended up with three stitches... While I was in the kitchen, probably doing something pointless like eating mashed potatoes or flipping through a Christmas catalog. Possibly both.

We use the hashtag #momfail as a joke, with the little things we’re comfortable sharing. The things we know people will identify and sympathize with (although the flea debacle is a stretch for me. I still cringe about that one).

Here’s something I’m discovering every new day with my kids as they morph into teens: #momfail is no joke. It isn’t forgetting to pack your kids’ lunch; it isn’t telling them they’re fine and to walk it off, only to discover later that they’ve broken a bone, it isn’t missing a teacher’s note about late homework, or leaving them in the kitchen only to find out they've eaten a quarter of a block of cheese. #momfail is a lot more damaging— to your kids and to you. 

I fail on a daily basis. An hourly one, sometimes. I fail hard and I fail ugly, and my kids suffer the consequences. I’m the PMSing mom who told my PMSing daughter, straight to her face, “Not today, Satan!”, leaving both of us to infer whether I was calling HER Satan, or saying she was possessed by Satan, or just speaking to Satan as a generality (the jury is still out on that). 

I’m the mom who got into a shouting match with her son, a shouting match so brutal that it left him locked in his room with a pillow over his head, and me locked in the bathroom with a bottle of wine.

I’m the mom who struggles daily, and loses the struggle almost just as much, to parent a child with adjustment disorder and anxiety, lacking patience and empathy and understanding.

These aren’t things you’ll see anyone posting with the cute little hashtag, #momfail. These are things we'll hide, things we’ll cry about in bed at night after everyone else is asleep, the things that rip us apart and make us question who we are, what we’re doing, and how much the therapy bill is going to cost one day. 

Which, as usual, is why I’m writing about it. I’m saying “us” and “we”, when I really mean to say, loud and clear, “ME”. 

Mea culpa. 

My kids are everyday still learning how to be humans. They’re walking a field of landmines, trying to navigate heads suddenly full of grown up thoughts attached to young, changing bodies, friends and enemies and frenemies pressuring them, tripping them up and pushing them down and pulling them sideways; they’re being raised in a bubble culture that preaches unconditional acceptance— unless someone disagrees with you, in which case they’re backward and close-minded and hateful. They live in a world full of confusion and chaos.

And my kids are everyday living with a mom who fails, a mom who is walking through a field of landmines with these growing humans. Sometimes she’s too far ahead, expecting them to catch up too quickly. Sometimes she lags behind, holding them back because she doesn’t understand or can’t follow the steps they take; sometimes she’s right on top of them, smothering them. Very, very rarely is she walking beside them, understanding them, advising them, finding that balance between compassion and coaching. 

Sometimes she accidentally writes a whole paragraph in the third person. 

Every new day I need grace. Every. Single. Day. And if I need room to fail, if I want and need and pray for redemption every day, after 35 years of learning to be a human, how much more do my kids need it— my kids who just woke up one day feeling like aliens in their own bodies, thinking alien thoughts and hearing alien words from all the other aliens around them? 

In the end— and in the beginning, the middle, and every moment in between, our kids raise us as much as we raise them. More, even. Who we are as parents- which, for most of us, becomes the cornerstone of our entire identity, because once you’re a parent, you’re a parent until you die- is so intrinsically tied into who our kids themselves are. Their personalities shape our parenting. They mold us even more than we mold them. So doesn’t it stand to reason that when our kids turn into these alien beings, we become a little alien, too? Everything we learned as parents of young kids is turned on its head as soon as those hormones kick in. We’re not raising kids anymore: we’re mentoring young adults. Whole families, entire households, shudder with the growing pains of one single human; or in my case, three humans. All at once. At the same time. Together. Just in case you were wondering.

In truth, failure, even a watered down #momfail, isn’t really an option. It isn’t even a Thing. Fierce love and forgiveness- for our kids and for ourselves- is our only path, our ONLY Thing. Keep failing, keep learning, keep fighting, keep moving forward. Landmines and all.

Fire and Frost

I'm back at the Bay. I'm sure none of you are shocked by this fact. The high for today is in the mid-50s, but there's a Nor'easter blustering its way toward us, so the wind chill is much cooler than mid-50s. The sandpipers are running in wild, dizzying serpentine lines, skipping in to the foam forming the shoreline, then scurrying away just as quickly. The waves are kicking up, the sand is cold and clammy under my bare feet, and I'm wrapped in the Mexican blanket I've had for 20 years. Braving and embracing it all, because I need this place, and this is where I come when I get full up of feels.

In a recent Instagram post, I said I hoped that someday soon I would find some words that are worthy of what this month has done. I don’t know if I’ve found anything worthy, but the words are dipping and swelling and spilling out all the same. 

October is my favorite month. It always has been. I adore summer, and Christmas is my favorite holiday, but October... October is new moments and old memories, the birth of change and the death of sameness. October is fire and color and frost and fade. It’s smoke and moss and wind and twilight. It’s air crisping up in your lungs and leaves crunching down under your feet, expansive clouds in blue and exuded clouds on your breath. It is everything. 

And my October, my beautiful October, has hurt me this year. Is it ridiculous to feel betrayed by a month of the year, by a calendar, by something that doesn’t know I exist and doesn’t know that I just.needed.peace? 

This year, I hate October. 

I don’t see the new beginnings, I only see the endings. I only see the loss. 

My stepdad passed away on October 10th, less than two weeks after his diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. It happened so quickly. So quickly that it still doesn’t feel real. I know it happened. I watched it happen, day after day, watched him suffer and waste away, kissed him goodbye and whispered my love to him after he was gone. I watched, aching and heartbroken, and at the same time, perversely relieved that he was no longer in pain, as he was taken from his home for the last time. I was there for all of it. And yet all of those moments feel like a memory from a dream. It happened too quickly. Beyond my comprehension, beyond my ability to believe.

October has been hard. The fire of it has burned me. The frost of it has numbed me. And I’m tired. I’m so tired. I’m tired of being needed, even when I need to be needed. I’m tired of not sleeping, I’m tired of not eating, I’m tired of crying, I’m tired of the heaviness of grief weighing me down to my very bones, weakening me in my joints and my shoulders and my spine and my neck. I’m tired of mediating, and monitoring, and mothering, and, oh, please, God help me, I’m tired of mourning.

And I’m tired of complaining. I’m sure there are those around me who are tired of me complaining, too. I don’t mean to. I don’t want to. I don’t want this to be the gravitational pull of my life that every day, every thought, and every thing revolves around; but this is what grief does. It consumes. It consumes as surely as the fire and frost of October consumes the last lingering days of summer. 

I wanted these words to be worthy of my stepfather. To tell the story of my life with him, my love for him, and why the loss of him is so monumental. And I will. Someday I will, I swear it. 

But today- just for today, I need to burn. I need to freeze. I need to die with the old and rise again with the new. I need to see the color and smell the smoke and live in what is left of my favorite month, and I need to forgive. Forgive what I can never comprehend, forgive what I can never forget, forgive that so, someday, I won’t be consumed. 

And then... then, the stories, the memories, the words worthy of a man who was a father to me, who lived a worthy life, will be born. Soon. 

Siren Song

I’m sitting—Surpriiiise! not at the beach— in the lone chair in my kitchen, my hair twisted up in sticky coils in my second attempt to make my gray dye stick (I'll update on that later, but whatever happens, we know the dye works on fingernails). I’ve got half a bagel in front of me, and now I’m debating if I even can stomach it.

A month or so ago, I wrote a blog that was vague and a little sideways and everything I hate when people write that way... that vague sense of humble superiority, the one that says, “I’m going through SO much and it sucks SO bad, and I want your sympathy but, sorryyyy, can’t tell you why.” I didn’t write it that way because it’s what I wanted. That’s not my writing “voice”, as we all unfortunately know. But at the time, there were things going on that weren’t definite, answers we were still waiting on, and fears I, in all honestly, did not want to give voice and shape and power to.
It’s been about six weeks now, and I have a few answers, although they aren’t what I’d prefer. At this point it seems that maybe giving voice and shape and power to it all doesn’t even matter, because it’s already there.


My stepdad is sick. He’s really, really sick. They’re throwing out terms like “mass on the pancreas”, “spots on the lungs are likely metastasized”, “keep him comfortable”. Bad things. Things you don’t want to hear doctors ever, ever say to you, and at the same time, part of me wants to reach out and hug the doctor, because my God, I can’t even imagine it being my job to constantly give these reports to terrified families.I’ve been blessed to have a stepdad I can truly, deeply love, whom my kids view as their grandfather, no caveats, no questions asked. The way my parents’ marriage ended almost 17 years ago has left its marks, that’s for damn sure. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t find a new normal, and we couldn’t create some love out of that chaotic explosion. And to bear witness to this, to yet another loss in my life, and, God help me, in my kids’ lives... it’s killing me. It’s the thing that keeps me awake at night, watching the ceiling fan spin around and around in the dark, wondering how am I supposed to tell them? Do I let them see him the way he is now, or let them remember the way he was and take away what is, in all likelihood, their chance to say goodbye? Do I ask them and let them decide? Are they even old enough to make that kind of decision? Why is this happening? I can’t bear it. I honestly feel like I can’t bear it.


Add to all of this something else I’ve only touched on here and there— Atleigh has struggled with anxiety and mood swings ever since the loss of Jeremy’s grandparents. Things got hard and kept getting harder ever since. Finally, after some bullying incidents at school and a disturbing drawing done during class by Atleigh, we’ve put her in therapy. And yes, I can hear a lot of you now, probably we should have gotten her into therapy sooner. We didn't know. We just didn't. And we aren't perfect. We made a mistake, and we're doing our best to combat that now. I'm grateful we've gotten her in to an amazing, faith-based local practice, where they work on healing as well as treating any issues that come up.
Emotionally reactionary.... that’s a phrase they used to describe her extremely volatile, up in the air emotional state, what they said to me as they told me they’d like her to undergo a psychiatric assessment. Out of all of my kids, she’s the one to whom I’m most terrified to tell this news about her grandfather. How do I do it? What do I say? How do we all handle the fallout together?

Jesus, this is hard to write out. Hard because it's vulnerable, it exposes me, it exposes her, it opens up a situation that strangers feel they can be experts on and give me advice about. But as usual, part of it is to let you know, you’re not alone. You’re NOT. I'm not alone either. We’re here in the trenches right next to each other. Maybe fighting a different battle, a different demon, with different weapons, but still together.


I’m so tired, friends. So, so tired. Even when I sleep, I’m tired. There’s a weight on me that feels like it can’t be lifted. The weight of grief, the weight of uncertainty, the weight of expectations and responsibility, the weight of disappointment, the weight of love. So heavy. So heavy.
There have been two things getting me through this week, which has been an especially hard week— two things that two of my brothers have said and given to me, complete unconscious of the gift they’ve offered. I suspect they’ll be getting me through a good many months.

This past Sunday, my brother Ben said in a prayer, completely randomly, completely without inkling of how hard it would hit me, “God, broaden their shoulders.” That was it. He prayed other things too, but after that I didn’t hear anything else. I immediately picked up my phone (yes, in the middle of a prayer, okay??) and typed into my notes is all caps

BROADEN MY SHOULDERS

Then I scrawled that same phrase at the top of the page of my notebook. Then I repeated it to myself every day, every hour, every minute of exhaustion, because. I can’t broaden my own shoulders. It can’t come from me. But my shoulders CAN be broadened. Even so, God. Even so. Broaden my shoulders.

The second strengthening came in the form of a few quotes from a story my youngest brother Isaac has been working on and shared with me. Actually, he shared the first chapter or so with me about two years ago, and I was so hooked I haven’t forgotten it since. I brought it up to him again earlier this week, and he shared it with me again, now new and improved with two whole chapters (HURRY UP, WILL YA IKE??). I won’t go into the whole plot, backstory, et al. Just a few short lines. The protagonist’s mother says to her, in the midst of hardship, war, gripping fear and gaping hunger,

“Hope is a song.... God’s favorite song, I think–beautiful when sung and played by His own grand choirs and orchestras, yes, but I think He likes it better still when you sing it.”

A few paragraphs down, there’s a reference to that first line about Hope, that says,

“Hope was a gateway to loss. God’s favorite song was that of a Siren.”

I don’t think I’ve ever, in my entire life, read anything that struck me quite so deeply. God’s favorite song is that of a Siren. According to mythology, once a person heard the song of the Siren, they chased it until they died. Until they dashed themselves upon the rocks. And isn’t that what Hope is? A Siren song that we so desperately need to grasp onto that we will dash ourselves upon the rocks again and again and again, in order to reach it? Maybe it’s a bit of that innate human selfishness we all have. We need that Hope. We’ll do anything to know a few lines of that song. Maybe we’re all a little greedy. Or maybe, God’s favorite song floats around us, in us, through us, waiting for us to recognize it and sing it with Him.

Broaden my shoulders. Hope. Broaden my shoulders. Hope.

Chasing each other around and around in my head, in my sleep, every day and night, every hour.
I’m tired. My shoulders feel thin. But I’m not without Hope. Dash me on the rocks, if that’s what it takes. I won’t be without Hope, I’ll be as greedy for it as I need to be. I’ll remember the song sung to me from the foundations of the earth and of my being and I’ll sing it back to the One who loves it best from me; I’ll allow my shoulders to be broadened, and I’ll be strong.

Rally Cap

[Bear with me, folks... my stream of consciousness may be even harder to follow tonight than it normally is.]

Back in February, I got the first tattoo in a black line half sleeve, that I’ll be adding on to as I’m able. 

The tattoo wraps around my lower bicep, just above my elbow, with a single dogwood bloom, to represent being a good ol’ Virginia girl (and also the first tree I ever learned to identify and love), and the Avett Brothers line from the song No Hard Feelings, “I have no enemies.”

The Avett album True Sadness released the summer of 2016, shortly after Jeremy’s Mema passed away. It took me about a week to get around to listening to it, right after what would have been her 84th birthday, and that particular song stopped me in my tracks. Literally: I was in the middle of cooking tacos for dinner, and I laid my head down on the counter, right next to the chopping block covered in onions and tomatoes, and I wept. I wept more than I can ever recall weeping with a song, and that’s saying something. 

The lyrics are:

When my body won't hold me anymore 

And it finally lets me free 

Will I be ready? 

When my feet won't walk another mile 

And my lips give their last kiss goodbye 

Will my hands be steady?

When I lay down my fears 

My hopes and my doubts 

The rings on my fingers 

And the keys to my house 

With no hard feelings

When the sun hangs low in the west 

And the light in my chest 

Won't be kept held at bay any longer 

When the jealousy fades away 

And it's ash and dust for cash and lust 

And it's just hallelujah 

And love in thoughts and love in the words 

Love in the songs they sing in the church 

And no hard feelings

Lord knows they haven't done 

Much good for anyone 

Kept me afraid and cold 

With so much to have and hold

When my body won't hold me anymore 

And it finally lets me free 

Where will I go? 

Will the trade winds take me south 

Through Georgia grain or tropical rain 

Or snow from the heavens?

Will I join with the ocean blue 

Or run into the Savior true 

And shake hands laughing 

And walk through the night 

Straight to the light 

Holding the love I've known in my life 

And no hard feelings

Lord knows they haven't done 

Much good for anyone 

Kept me afraid and cold 

With so much to have and hold 

Under the curving sky 

I'm finally learning why 

It matters for me and you 

To say it and mean it too 

For life and its loveliness 

And all of its ugliness 

Good as it's been to me 

I have no enemies 

I have no enemies 

I have no enemies 

I have no enemies

I hadn’t heard or felt anything so profound in longer than I could remember. If that song isn’t a hope filled capsule to stack with what’s important to you and find again later in life, I don’t know what is. I tattooed, “I have no enemies” on my arm as a reminder. A reminder that you can connect with, empathize with, and forgive pretty much everyone you come across. No one out there is my enemy; my biggest enemy is myself. I’m prone to self sabotage. Every year my New Years “resolution” is this (not so) simple phrase: Don’t self sabotage. 

Don’t see offense where none is meant to be given; or even if it is meant to be given, don't give it soil to root in. Don’t hold onto grudges that were never meant to be tangible, to be clasped tighter than intangible love and grace and mercy. Don’t read my own writing on the wall regarding other people. I have no enemies on this earth... except myself. It’s a constant reminder for me to maintain perspective. I haven’t learned it all yet. Who knows if I ever will? I have a difficult time separating other people’s actions in reference to how they affect me. Everything feels personal, because I’m a personal person. 

Today has been a cruddy, crappy, no good very bad day. I have a twitchy, tired headache from editing photos for nearly a dozen hours, and tense neck and shoulders from folding piles of laundry in between editing. I’m exhausted. I’m emotional. I got bad news today. I hate when people are cryptic about news, so I'm sorry about this particular cryptic reference, but in this case, it’s not my news to share. But it’s thrown me into a spiral, a never-ending drop, off a cliff I’ve clumsily, catastrophically tripped over, falling right back down to rocky ground I’ve had to navigate too many times.  I'm scared this time it will shatter me. And it’s too hard not to be selfish. It’s too hard not to say to myself, over and over, “I can’t do this again. I cannot. I can’t do it again.” But here I am, having to do it again. It’s like a lead blanket thrown over your shoulders, sinking you flat onto the floor, facedown, limbs and joints completely liquified and useless, unable to move. That’s what this feels like. 

Tonight, after an incredibly long day, I’m sitting at my safe place. The beach proper closes at sundown; as if the water stops working when the sun slips away, even though I can see the moon reflecting on the water perfectly well. 

It’s humid. It’s so humid here this week- maybe even more so than usual, which is saying a lot. Humidity doesn’t bother me. I’d rather be hot than cold. My hands feel tacky and grimy, the creases of my elbows are sticky and pulling away from each side of the crease slowly every time I bend my arms, my upper arm stubbornly clinging to my lower arm; my sinuses feel stuffed with cement and my hair is springing out of its ponytail in a riot of baby hairs; but I don’t care. I’m here. I can hear the water, I can breathe, I can smell the salt and brine, and I can write— as I usually do by the Bay. 

I can’t do this, friends. All of my wells of strength and support and self preservation were poured out like oil, like blood, the past too many years. The thought of trying to refill that well makes me feel so weak and drained. I feel like there’s a part of me, that hollow in your stomach, the physical reflection of your psyche- a correlation of mental and emotional pressure turned to physical panic- that is turning me inside out trying to produce a few more drops of faith and ferocity. I think I can literally feel it, flipping around, floundering, squeezing.

But what can I do? I can do nothing but rally. In baseball, there’s an event called a “two out rally”. I don’t know that they do it in the major leagues, but in little league, the boys punch their fists into their hats and turn them inside out, wearing them with the white lining showing. Their rally caps. They chant “TWO-OUT-RALL-YYY!!!” over and over. That chanting, the symbolism of those inside out caps, jolts them and hypes them up to a degree that no amount of full jugs of Gatorade and all the Double Bubble they can shove into their cheeks could ever do. A two out rally means something. It means hope. It means faith, it means a chance to FINISH THIS.

Maybe that’s what this inside out, anguished feeling really is. My two out rally. My time to punch my fist into my safe covering, and to hype myself up for a repetitive, brave, jacked up, faith-filled chant. Maybe it’s time to start chanting, maybe it’s time to repeat that I have no enemies, besides my own weaknesses and doubts. 

Bring on that last out. I’ll wear the inside outness, I’ll hype myself up, I’ll chant out the faith I don’t even feel yet, and I’ll rally. I can't hold back, I cannot allow "the light in my chest to be held at bay any longer", over some misguided sense of self preservation, a fortress against feeling. I’ll rally. 

I'll rally.

The Teenage Years

When Ashton was an infant, he had reflux to a horrifying degree. I’m talking so much puke that there would be a reverse silhouette (I guess that would just be an outline?) of my body on the wall when he burped over my shoulder. I carried full sized bath towels and multiple changes of clothing for both of us at all times.

One night, when he was about 10 days old, I couldn’t get him to stop crying. All night, I nursed him, rocked him, bounced him, patted him, and still he cried. I ended up lying on the couch, shirtless, Ashton nestled in the crook of my arm, skin to skin, with him screaming relentlessly against my chest. I sobbed with him, finally half shouting, “What do you want from me?? I’m not even wearing a ****ing shirt!!!” 

In that moment, I thought to myself, “It can’t possibly get worse than this.”

When I brought a newborn Chloe home from the hospital, Ashton had managed to contract double pink eye in the two days I was gone. Try telling a 2 year old that he can’t come in contact with Mommy or the new baby, all while trying to nurse said baby, and recover from giving birth, and comfort the 2 year old who feels miserable— at my ground zero as a mother of two. 

I told myself, “It can’t get harder than it is now.”

When Atleigh was born in a home that we had outgrown before we’d even moved in, to a family that was taken completely by surprise by baby number three, I suddenly had more children than I had hands. Those early months are a haze, punctuated by sleepless nights, an ER worthy bout of strep, and trying (and often failing) to figure out those dang sling carriers with the double rings, because baby number three could not stand to be set down, could not handle not being in the middle of everything that was going on at all times, and nine years later still has the most chronic case of FOMO I’ve ever seen. She would only ever let me face her outward where she could see everything. 

I said to myself, “I couldn’t be any more exhausted than I am with three kids under four. It’s all downhill coasting from here.”

And for several years, it was. We found a rhythm, I learned to not take myself seriously, and we carried on. 

Until about three years ago. When Ashton hit the preteen years. A year later, Chloe joined him across that line in the sand, the line that divides them against me and leaves me wringing my hands, a hairsbreadth away from the babies I nursed and coddled and cuddled, knowing that I can’t cross that line no matter how much I want to. 

And all of my metaphorical shoulder rubs and head petting, telling myself it couldn’t get worse than the infant and toddler years, were a cruel cosmic joke that came back to mock me everyday. 

Nothing— nothing— could have prepared me for the teenage years. So many mothers told me it would get easier: the toddler years wouldn’t last forever. They were right. Those years don’t last forever. But most days I’d pay good money to go back to those sleepless nights and the potty training and the fermented juice cups under the couch and the trying to keep them from accidental grievous injury everyday of their little lives. 

Being a mom of infants and toddlers is exhausting. Don’t get me wrong. I honor all you moms who are in the trenches I’ve clawed my way out of. But it’s a physical exhaustion. We’re tired. All the time. ALL the time. We’d give our kingdom for a full night’s sleep; we’d settle for a nap. 

Being the mom of two teenagers and a tween is exhausting on a level I never could have comprehended in those years I was sleep deprived, begging for reprieve. I’m exhausted in a way that no mother who has been in my shoes could have prepared me for. It’s a mental exhaustion, as opposed to physical exhaustion, and I’d take waking up four times a night with an infant over this almost any day.

It’s bone deep. It’s soul deep. It bows your head and hunches your shoulders and it turns you inside out with worry and weariness. It exposes all those ugly, weak spots in you, and it leaves you raw and shivering and wondering how, how, HOW, could that obnoxious, cheeky, clever little angel I hugged mere years ago turn into this. Could somehow embody all the worst parts of me, bleed it out, and shove it right back in my face? How? When? Why?

Nothing has made me weaker, nothing has made me question who I am as a person, and Who God thinks He is, like raising a bunch of teens. 

I’m tired, y’all. I’m so tired. I’m tired of being pushed against at every turn, argued with and questioned and huffed at. No amount of discipline sticks, no amount of reasoning gets through their thick heads— seriously, do their skulls get thicker when they hit twelve?? I may as well be trying to communicate with a cinder block, and honestly I’d probably get through to that more easily than I can to my kids. 

A thousand nights of sleeping clean through, a car sans car seats, a recycling bin full of sippy cups and lids, a wasteland of a living room (and bedroom, and kitchen, and bathroom) strewn from wall to wall with Matchbox cars and Barbies and sandals and Carter’s pajamas, all the toddler tantrums in Christendom were not enough to prepare me for the mental and emotional wasteland that I’m in now. The constant battle of wills. The role reversal, going from toddlers tugging on my shirt to beg for my attention— craving it, needing it, prizing it— to me knocking on a bedroom door, craving, needing, prizing one scrap of insight into their days, into their world. Any tears of physical exhaustion that I wept a dozen years ago have long since been eclipsed by the tears of mental weariness that I keep hidden, that I cry in the bathroom where they can’t see, that roll down my temples some nights after they’re asleep and it’s just me, me, me and my memories of those obnoxious angels that used to be mine. 

But don’t despair, Mamas. 

One: We are surrounded by a great and mighty cloud of witnesses, of mamas, parents who have gone before, who have walked and staggered and crawled through the minefield, the wasteland of being a mother to humans straddling the dimensions between childhood and adulthood. 

Two: Speaking of no comparison— that first gassy smile from your newborn, that first babbled “mamamamama” pales— pales— in comparison to a genuine smile from your teen, a voluntary, albeit mumbled, “love you” from a creature who, lets face it, at this age doesn’t love a whole lot. In those moments when you feel like if you have to face one more day of these brass heavens they build against you, you might just vomit from the sheer stress of it, if something doesn’t give soon— those are the moments when they look at you, really look at you, and smile. And those smiles, sneaking out from the corners of their faces where the baby still lurks, hidden and angular.... somedays, the sun rises and sets on those smiles. 

Three: There is a camaraderie with my teens that I treasure above most things; that I store up in my heart for those days when the brass heavens bruise me and make me feel broken, and that keep me tiptoeing through the minefield, knowing, knowing, KNOWING, that this is just a season. This won’t last forever. And someday... someday my babies will be back, but better than ever, because they’ve made it through their own personal teenage minefields, and I’ve been waiting for them on the other side; holding my hands out to them the way I did when they took their first steps, cheering them on, calling out warnings and encouragement, believing they can do it and will be the stronger for it. 

Take heart, parents of teens. We’ll be stronger too. 

Is There Such A Thing As Too Much Eyeliner?

I'm going to go ahead and answer that question for you all right off the bat, and the answer is, absolutely not. There is no such thing. I am firmly ensconced in the "go big or go home" camp when it comes to makeup. If I don't look like a drag queen, I'm doing it wrong.
 However, I do believe there can be such a thing as too much mascara; but that's only because the clumping, and I have an anxious habit of pulling on my eyelashes when I'm stressed out. I won't reveal how many times I've pulled out chunks of eyelashes and ended up with bald patches.

All of this is just to segue into the fact that some days, for me, are just an utter waste of makeup. Some days are just a constant raining of eyeliner tears; when it feels like all the makeup I wore as armor drips down my face, bit by bit: tracking down my cheeks and clinging to my chin for dear life; for hope, for strength, for bravery... until they finally give in to gravity and accept the grief.

Today is one of those days. One of those wounded, broken, Why and What If and What Next type of days.

And no. I'm not happy that my first blog since the birth of this year is me writing about melting makeup. But if you've read my blog enough, you know that I don't fake it. I write what I feel from where I am and I make no apologies.

Because more than anything, I strive to be real.

And today, my reality is hurt and broken and betrayed and frustrated and confused, and my reality is dripping my Go Big Or Go Home makeup down my face.

And you know what? That's okay. This is okay. There is no such thing as perfection and there is no reason to pretend you've achieved it, or pursue something that can never be caught. So these pageant queen tear tracks on my cheeks are fine. They're not forever, any more than perfection would be if I could catch it.

Hurt comes to us. Rejection rears its disfigured face. Stress strangles us. And eyeliner will sometimes leave tracks down your perfectly primed and applied matte powder.

But none of them last. They appear, they swirl around, they rain down, and then they head on their way. Because there is no permanent strength in these things. They're sprinters; they're not marathoners.

So I'll wait out today. And tomorrow... well. I wouldn't be a proper drag queen wannabe if I didn't own plenty more eyeliner.

Words Will Break My Heart

Words.... there are so many things I love about words. I love the way they sound. I love the cadence of certain words, the satisfaction of a good alliteration. I love the way the meaning or sound of a word can change depending on the words that surround it. I love the heady rush of being able to spout words off faster than thought, a well turned phrase, a sentence that stops you in your tracks. 

Awhile back, a friend of mine sent me a list of  the 100 most beautiful words in the English language. Many of them have a musical cadence, a bouncing from one syllable to another. Some evoke certain emotions, sights, thoughts, smells. The truly beautiful thing? Not all the words have beautiful meanings. 

The most beautiful thing about words: they are one of the most powerful forces begat to us humans. 

The book of Proverbs, chapter 18, says, "The power of life and death is in the tongue". James chapter 3 says our tongues steer us the way a rudder steers a ship. 

Such a small, simple thing. A rudder. A tongue. But with the right pressure, the right power, able to control entire vessels. 

Don't believe in the Bible? That's okay. There are plenty of sayings, metaphors, colloquialisms that acknowledge the power of words. Call it positive or negative reinforcement. Call it good or bad vibes. There's the well known saying, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." 

Whoever came up with that saying was deeply cloaked in denial. 

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will break my heart. 

In my head swirl the words of many, many people who have hurt me, betrayed me, encouraged me, valued me. They're all swimming around in there. The family friend who said my chin resembled Inspector Gadget's. A person in my life that I was desperate to be loved by, to be valued and seen, who told me I was a thorn in their side- a reference to the Apostle Paul's painful trial that could not be overcome, no matter what. The first person who told me I was pretty. My youth pastor, who called me faithful. A friend who always tells me they admire the way I throw an outfit together. The first person who asked me to sing. The first person who told me I could write. A person who flippantly asked me- in their mind, as a joke- what I was doing with my life. Telling me I was slipping. 

They're all in there, taking turns using up space in my mind, fighting that battle between life and death. Repeating, replaying. Over and over and over.

People. 

Your words are mighty. 

Your words can be merciful. 

Your words can be malicious.

Your words hold poison.

Your words hold power. 

Your words can wound.

Your words can heal.

Your words can rip apart or bind up.

Be careful, friends. Be the good words that someone remembers in twenty years. Be careful what worlds you create or tear down with your words. 

Be wise. Be kind. Be beautiful.

Be careful. 

Courage, Dear Heart

I'm writing this on my very, very badly cracked phone screen. In all my years of having cell phones, I've never cracked a screen. I feel lesser, somehow. Like I've lost a piece of my pride. And while you'd probably think it would be more sensible to type on my computer or even my iPad, my spoiled millennial thumbs can only handle an iPhone screen now, cracked or no. 

This blog is going to be a hodge podge of my thoughts. Believe it or not, I've been physically writing in a journal occasionally over the last few months. All of these thoughts are to do with my most recent "disconnect" which I've written about before. It's a bad one. A long and dark one. And I've brought it on myself, but by naming it and accepting it, I'm hoping to finally force myself out of it. Bear with me as I try to string together what may seem like a long line of non-cohesive thoughts. (Apparently, incohesive and uncohesive are not words? I must have made that up.)

April 1, 2016

Atleigh is lying next to me in bed, while Jeremy is working late. I just realized she sleeps exactly the same way I do: one knee drawn up to her chest, her other leg kicked out behind her. The fan is making her hair sway, ever so slightly. I should not be letting her sleep here tonight. And yet I am, because I'm depressed and lonely. 

It's a frightful juxtaposition, this loneliness. A cosmic April Fool's joke. I fall into these disconnects and I want nothing more than to be alone; yet I crave the human interaction even as I crave the solitude. Grasp and grapple. Catch and release. 

I read somewhere once, on a Myers-Briggs test, that Jesus was an INFP, like I am. I don't know how accurate that is; as far as I know, Jesus never took the Myers-Briggs test. But I can't help but feel that He probably often felt the way I feel now. Wrestling with His need for solitude, reconciling it with His human nature that needs other humans. How exhausted He must have constantly been! It's no wonder He disappeared into the desert, climbed hills and hid out in ships' holds. And yet, He chose people. He chose interaction.

Did he really need the disciples to help Him with His work? Surely the Son of God, the one who raised the dead, could have managed to the spread the word and feed the crowds on His own heavenly strength.  But He didn't. He chose interdependent relationships. Tiresome, hurtful, confusing, disappointing. He chose that, to live out His father's words of, "It's not good for man to be alone."

It's not good.

Not, "it's not possible" or "it's wrong", or "it's not healthy". 

It's not good. It's not God's intended best. 

I can choose isolation, absolutely. God knows lately I've wanted to. When relationships that I've poured my heart and soul into begin to feel like a barren wasteland, and I'm futilely watering parched earth at my own expense, I want to give up. 

When I've spent week after week interacting with strangers, attempting to make the small talk that I am so woefully inept at, I want to hide. 

When I'm battling it out with my kids day after day, never a moment's peace or solitude, I want to retreat. 

People are hard work. 

Relationships, the care and cultivation of them, are hard work. But it doesn't mean they aren't worth it. And it's not good for me to be alone. 

Tonight, after a long few days of struggling with a heavy weight of feeling discouraged and unmotivated, I took myself to the beach. As soon as my mother in law came to take the girls to church, I gathered my things, put on my oversized beach hat, and made my way to the bay. And I wrote. 

I'm sitting out at the beach and the wind is blowing hard in my ears. It smells salty and feels sticky and sounds louder than I thought it would, with the cries of the gulls and the shrieks of all the high school kids celebrating the end of another school year. All in all, it's making me smile more genuinely than anything has in months, it seems. 

There's a girl with hip tattoos that I feel sure she'll regret, and a couple of young children who just came close to me and pretended to be stuck in the sand. 

And I'm sitting here on the low concrete wall, pausing every so often to look around me, to see my shadow stretching out long and lean in front of me as the sun sets at my back. 

And I'm crying. 

I'm wondering how I've gotten into this place of isolation again. A few weeks off- that's what I wanted. What I'm sure I needed. But at some point it shifted into what it is right now, a heaviness and a weakness to move. 

And I think of the joy I had wrested- seemingly from the hands of the enemy himself- this past year. 

I think of the roots I have planted, willingly and unwillingly. 

I think of the niches I have carved for myself, knowingly and unknowingly.

And even just thinking of it, writing it, makes me tired. I've let myself lose the ground I fought so hard to gain. I've slid down into a valley, and looking up to where I was is daunting. 

I am not brave. 

I am tired. 

But right now I'm thinking of Narnia. And I'm thinking of how every time I read those books, no matter how old I am, something new speaks to me. Bravery in danger. Hope in hopelessness. Adventure in unknown. I'm reading The Voyage of the Dawn Treader right now, and I just sailed with the Narnians out of the Dark Island. I'm thinking of their terror in the darkness- that fear that they would never get out. That lost and hopeless feeling. 

And Lucy did all she could when she "leant her head on the edge of the fighting top and whispered, 'Aslan, Aslan, if ever you loved us at all, send us help now.'

"The darkness did not grow any less, but she began to feel a little- a very, very little- better. 'After all, nothing has really happened to us yet,' she thought."

Their fear wasn't even anything tangible. It was unexplainable, untouchable, unable to be argued against for its very vagueness. Just nameless darkness. In that moment of terror, all Lucy could do was cry out to the only One who could help her- she feared even her brother and her friends in that moment. And even when she called His name, the darkness did not grow less. She only felt a very little better.

Yet it was a step. A tiny step, an arguably pointless step. But it was only after she called that help came. The whisper of, "Courage, dear heart," meant only for her ears, came when she named her fear and spoke over it. 

So this is me. Speaking from my tired, dark place. Naming my darkness and calling for help. Hearing and accepting that whisper of 

Courage, Dear Heart. 

I'm leaving that Dark Island behind. If you've been living there, too- trapped in a nameless, wordless place, if you need some courage, come with me. There's plenty to go around. Let's do this together. After all, it's not good for us to be alone. 

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