Ugly

I spent the night tossing and turning, and ended up waking up and staying up at 5:30am. Those who know me know how bizarre this is. Generally I'm approaching 5:30 from the opposite side of our 24 hours. But right now, I'm wide awake and sitting on the beach, tired of trying to pound my pillow and my thoughts into submission. Sometimes the best way to overcome that tiredness is to give up on sleep. 

I'm in an Ugly place right now. It's not really anyone's fault. It's just my reception and perception of outside circumstances. It's my own deep seated Ugly bubbling up from those places that I have to ask myself if I'll ever fully clean out, no matter how hard I try, no matter how many times I attempt to "take every thought captive". 

The thing is- and sadly- the enemy (that's Christianese for THE DEVIL, although I don't know why I couldn't just say that in the first place since now I've spent more time explaining myself) is Ugly. He's insidious and gross and unfortunately I tend to give him access to my weakest places. The open attacks, the dive bombs, those are fairly easy to resist. 

It's that stupid, Ugly, challenging little two fingered push to the shoulder, while he rocks back on his heels with a smug grin on his face knowing he's touched that pressure point, that are so hard for me to cope with. Those heavy, twining tendrils of doubt that weave their way up from that Ugly place in me, choking out my confidence, my hard won sense of self, that leave me weak and gasping. Those existential crises that leave me staring at the ceiling in the wee sma's. It's his whispered little taunts of, "Who are you? Who do you think you are? You're nothing more than that girl who's hidden in corners and in everyone's shadow for your entire life. You're weak. You're worthless." 

Because when it comes to those moments, I have to force myself to fight them and convince myself it's not true. And I'm so tired. The Ugly is easier, it's more in line with what I've conditioned myself to believe. Default.

All me. All me and that little devil on my shoulder, who 95% of the time wouldn't dare show its face. But that 5% can undo it all. In the space of a few minutes. 

Why does it work that way? Why are we, as humans in general, so quick to believe that Ugly 5% instead of stand firm on whatever is good, whatever is lovely? Is this just me? Granted, self deprecation is one of my standard fallbacks. But self deprecation and self loathing are completely different things. Self deprecation comes from a place that doesn't process compliments and praise well. Self loathing... Well, we all know what that is. It's Ugly. It's heavy. And it's a lie from the ugly one himself, although knowing that and being able to shake it off are two separate things. 

I promise I'll write about happier things soon. Our summer has not been spent with me rocking back and forth in a corner while I let the Ugly press on me like a cloak. The only reasons I write out the Ugly is because it's cathartic, I figure there are very few people who actually read my blogs, and I assume those few wrestle with their own brand of Ugly. 

I almost wrote, "We can be Ugly together." But no. I don't want the Ugly, I refuse to own it, and I don't want the Ugly for you, either. When that smug, infuriating two fingered shove makes you stumble, shove back. Better yet, do it with two hands, ten fingers, and all the worthiness that comes from the One who denounces your Ugly and calls it Lovely. The one who denounces that capital U and draws a red line through that title and calls it for what it is: an ugly little lie that was proven untrue when the red lines were still wet and fresh. I choose whatever is True. I choose whatever is Right. 

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. 

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.

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