Fear factor

It's Friday night.
I love Friday next as much as the next twenty-something. Mine just looks a little different.
Because I am forty.

And trying hard to rewrite my definition of fun.

Typical Friday night before 6 days ago:
Hang out with the boy. This likely includes carne asada fries or pizza with a Disney movie (Aladdin last week!MY pick!!!) or something weird like zoo animals turning into zombies (this is a real thing. and also, manchild's pick). After manchild goes to bed, the hubs and I grab a beer (something NOT fancy for him - think Fosters or Mickey's - in a can the size of my face, and a Shocktop Twisted Pretzel for me. Because that is the best beer on the PLANET.)
We go outside, grab our smokes, settle in our chairs and proceed to talk for at least three hours. Minimum. We talk, we plan, we belly laugh, we give kisses, we high-five, and we dream a little more. Then we go to bed.

Friday night as Day 6 of NO SMOKING. What does THAT look like?

Well - we did not go into this decision unprepared. This life change was the topic of conversations many Friday nights.

We planned how we would stop smoking while we smoked our brains out.

You see, we've tried before. Or - Jeff has.
I am the one with the pitchfork and horns in this situation. I am the BAD INFLUENCE. He has done 6 days. He has done TWO WEEKS. And I'm outside like, "No one is making me quit. I'll smoke if I wanna." puff puff flick. puff puff flick.

That plan doesn't work. Not for us. We both had to or it wasn't going to happen. All. Nothing. All. Nothing.

And I didn't want to. I was adamant about it. I would quit when I was ready and you know, I didn't think I ever would be. Even typing this sentence right this second, I feel scared. I feel scared about not smoking.

Jeff wouldn't push me and he'd come back outside and we would continue.
Oh, I'd feel shame. For sure. What kind of WIFE doesn't support her husband when he wants to quit smoking? When he wants to better himself?
I'll tell you,
A selfish one. An addicted one. A struggling one. A scared one.
But I'd rationalize, and he would too, and the shame would crawl back into the mud it came out of. See you next time.
puff puff flick.

I started smoking when I was twelve. It started as pressure, for sure. Not the kind you would think though. I didn't smoke to "be cool." I smoked to disappear. It's a lot easier to disappear when you look like everyone else.
A year later I was living in a group home. We ALL smoked. To disappear. To be outside. To avoid slamming each other's heads against the wall. To not cry out our fear and rage. Instead we sucked it down. We sucked it all down.
puff puff flick.

And that continued for me for the next 27 years. Cigarettes became my bestie. Sure, I knew the dangers, I'm not an idiot, but those seemed far, far removed from me. Like a city on a continent I've only seen pictures of. I know it's real but I don't have plans to go there.

I smoked and I sucked it all down - abandonment, anger, loss, insecurity, fear, and fear, and fear. I inhaled deep and controlled my exhale out. I would not let these things beat me. I would not.

And even as I write this I wonder, who will be my friend? When all is quiet and everyone is asleep and my mind is goinggoinggoing and I am trying to pray and trying to feel and also trying not to, who will be my friend?


But, I can't think about that. I have to focus. I have to remind myself Jeff and I have a plan. We made a plan and part of that plan is, don't think too far ahead. And a second part is, we're going to feel it all and we're going to give grace and love like we're made with it. And another part is, we're going to learn how to talk, like normal people, we will learn how to talk. While doing dishes, and laying in bed, and walking the dogs. And maybe we will gain a little bit of weight but we are going to keep saying, You are BEAUTIFUL and You are STRONG, and so we will smile and keep going. I will do this. We will do this.
We have to.

The thought of losing Jeff scares me frozen. I could not bear it.
He started coughing a while ago. He started coughing and its been so long since I've heard the cough that I can't remember when it started. All I know is that sometimes he hunches over and he coughs so hard it reaches out and squeezes my heart until I think it might shatter. He coughs so hard he can't breathe and I hold my breath and not breathe either until he does again.
I found myself making deals with God, "If you let him be ok, I'll stop. I really will." And then I would light another one. I'm not very good at this deal business. I am good at fear.

Here's the thing. I had to decide which fear was bigger - living without my constant of the last 28 years or living without Jeff?
And Jeff wins. Jeff wins every time.

Maybe it's because we're forty now. Maybe its because over the past two months, two people we know have died and left us shaking our heads thinking, "What the fuck is happening? He was SO young!" Maybe it's realizing, this life is pretty damn precious and if I want it, I better live like I want it. Maybe its finally beginning to believe, I am worthy. I am worthy of not just surviving in this life,
but thriving in every second of it too.


And so, come. Come, new Friday night with food and movies and no beer and no smokes.
Come.
I am going to see you. I am going to face you.
And I am going to be OK.

2.85 Days and counting

I haven't smoked a cigarette in three days.
Well, 2.75 days. If I'm being honest, which I am.

The day is not over until I am in bed, eyes closed, and in the throes of REM. The day is not over until I see 12:00 glowing green. Then I can tell myself, "YOU ARE A ROCK-FREAKING-STAR."

I am fighting it. My stomach is aching from too many Hot Tamales. My fingers are nail-less and a few are a little bloody, but I am fighting.
I keep telling myself,
it's ok if you gain a few pounds. It's ok.
It's ok if you gain a few pounds and you have ugly, bloody hands. It's ok.

I try not to wonder too long if it really is ok because that stresses me out and that makes me think about smoking.

Focus on the good, right? RIGHTO!
(I've never said that by the way. Is that even real?)

Here is the good stuff.
I haven't had to wash my hair yet. I know what you are thinking - that's a good thing??
Ummmmm
Have you smelled a smokers' hair the day after?
It's bad. I can't tell if I look like Pigpen from Charlie Brown but I am sure I can sense the swirl of nasty around my head. Saving time and money and fears of being Pigpen. That is also RIGHTO!

But I will wash my hair tomorrow. Just because I like to be CLEAN.

I am getting rest!! Rather than walking to bed like a mummy at 10 or 11pm, I am practically leaping into bed at 8:30. Is this because I have nothing else to do and no conversations to be had with my husband?
NOPE.
It IS because if I don't get under these covers, if I don't shove my toes into the sheet that is tucked tight like a cocoon, if I don't tell myself,"Only crazy people get OUT OF BED to go light up," I will likely run as fast as I can out the back door and shove that skinny little stick into my mouth.

(sigh) This is not a pretty picture. I straight up sound like some kind of addict.

So, it's 8:30. With a book.
Which takes me right into the next BEST THING,
I am READING LIKE A STARVING PERSON.
(current book is LOVE WARRIOR which basically every woman, and man, on the PLANET should read)

Here's a marvelous thing though - I WAKE UP refreshed. Seriously.
AND AND AND
My morning breath has changed. YES. This is a fact.
Now - I have also switched toothpaste so a big shout-out to Thieves and all the essential oil lovers out there, but I am also thinking all the chemicals I typically suck into my lungs are no longer trying to escape through my wide-open (very possibly drooling) mouth while I twitch and slumber.
Do I want to suck face as soon as I open my eyes?
EW. NO.
But the morning breath has definitely gone down a notch.

Sunday was DAY 1.
Sunday night I was rethinking this whole "quitting smoking" business or at least seriously considering putting it off until Monday.
Some serious stuff happened Sunday. Stuff I wanted to talk about, ponder, ease in to - all while smoking.

But here's the thing - ISN'T THERE ALWAYS GOING TO BE SOMETHING??

Life does not wait. Life does not slow down and give us a breather. We have to make our change while we bob and weave. Change does not happen while we stand still.

So here I am. 2.85 days (updated!) I want one with every twitch in my fingers. Can you tell? I've never written with so many CAPS before!
But not today.
Not tonight. I'm going to bed. I'm going for FOUR.

XO

Flat

I couldn't bring myself to go to church today. I could barely bring myself to do life. Jeff knows something is wrong. He stopped doing today so he could sit on the couch with me and watch a movie. I did not ask him too but I think he knew I needed the support in my nothingness.

I wanted to spend time with God on my own and sometimes the best place for me there is when I write.There are no secrets for me here, in the written word. I let it all out - even if people decide not to like me anymore. It's the place I find my voice. It is here I can feel safe in the dark that moves inside me.I want people to see it. I invite you in to relate or repel. Pretending is too exhausting for words.

The disappointment I am learning to live with is almost tangible. I can taste it; everything I consume is muted, as if I have a cold. I can feel the heavy, a thick blanket that I wrap tighter rather than throw off. I've never been a person who gets depressed. I think I am too stubborn for it. The thought of something or someone getting the best of me is enough to keep me moving, keep me doing, keep striking a line through the tasks on my list.

Until now.

I am tired, God. I am.
I am tired of smiling when I don't mean it. I am tired of hugging, tired of thinking of an answer, tired of making excuses for other people. I am tired of putting their shoes on my feet when I know they don't fit me anymore. I am tired of walking in them, with them, when they are so tight I cannot breathe, so constricting in where they are taking me, in a life, in a story, I don't want as my own.

I remind myself, God, to love them like I want to be loved.
But here is what I am learning, God, what I have known deep within,
you can't make people love you back. Not even a little.

I remember my ex-husband saying to me one time, a thousand times, screaming;
Why can't you ever have my back? Why can't you take my side?

Those words have remained on me, deep in my skin, a scar that will not ever be unseen.
And now I know exactly what he meant.

It was always with good intentions, God, always with good intentions that I tried to see why people do the jacked up things they do. Maybe they had a fight with their spouse. Maybe their kids are too much today. Maybe they don't know how untangle themselves from the lassos others threw around them. Maybe they like it there because they learned how to walk in ropes.

This feeling, God, this feeling is so unknown and I do not like it here.
But here's the thing,
I don't know how to get out.
My list is not working. Distractions are not working. I listen to your songs, God, but I feel like I don't belong in them so I turn it off. I see the quotes, God, one inspirational word after another and all I can think is,
"Shut up. I'm so sick of your blanketness." I write cards, God. I write cards and I feel so much better for a minute because I do know, in that act, I am saying what I need to hear and I think, maybe someone else needs to hear it too? But then I tape it somewhere and I walk away and I walk away from the words. They have left me.

The tears come in the most unlikely of moments. At the grocery store, driving home from work, in the bathroom while I change to workout, in reading the thoughts of a fictitious twelve year old girl who lives in the pages of a book.

Are you there God? It's me, Shannon.

I walked out on my mother last week while we had dinner. I couldn't do it God. I couldn't sit and listen and nod and smile and pretend that all the words she spoke were true. I couldn't stop myself when I asked, "Oh, is that how it happened, Mom?" Even though I know better, even though I know she doesn't like to be questioned, even though I know it's a mistake to interrupt what she has re-written.
But it came out anyway, God, it did, and I'm not sorry for it because I was there too and I had to remain silent then but I won't remain silent now.

She is demanding too much. She is taking more than I can give out.

And so I warned her. I did. You heard me, right God? You heard me say, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."
But the Carrie-show stops for no one. It never has and she kept right on.

Her proclaimed epiphany was a joke, and not one of those ha-ha-ha ones God, it was more of a, what-the-fuck-is-she-saying-I'm-so-stunned-I-gotta-laugh ones.
But it's when our eyes met, and hers narrowed, and she instructed me to "go ahead and put a smile on my face", that I kind of lost it God. But not in a typical "Shannon" fashion so hey God, that's an improvement right? I didn't curse at her or make a scene or take her face and smash it into the basket of tortilla chips. Instead I stood up, so calm God, did you see how calm I was? And I grabbed my things and said thank you to Steve and I left. I heard Jeff behind me. I heard him stand up too. I heard him say to her, "you should have stopped. She asked you to stop." (unlike me, Jeff can always be counted on for a good back-having moment) and then he was with me, side by side, all the way out.

And still God, there was nothing, no ranting or yelling, nothing more than an occasional, she's fucking crazy, but even that was measured.

I know God.

I know all those "fucks" are unrighteous at best, deep-rooted sin time at worst, but I gotta tell you God, I think just about every one of those "fucks" was earned. I hear people say it all the time, "You can choose better words to express yourself" and hey, I've said it to my own kids.
But if I get right down to it, I really can't think of anything else that fits. So fuck it is.

I'm not trying to be disrespectful to you, God. Really I am not. I am being as up front with you as I can. Isn't that when prayer works best? Isn't that when you come in and do your biggest work? When we let it all hang out?

So there it is God. I am letting it hang. I am stuck. Believing in you is not a problem. Believing you is not a problem either.
The problem is me.
The problem is smiling when hey, it's not all alright.
The problem is I just don't have it in me right now to go that extra mile.
I'm having issues crawling.
Steps are kind of out of the question.

I know you God. I know you love me no matter what. I know you are going to stick by me, in all this junk I keep trying to toss out but when my back is turned, it's like someone is refilling the can. I know you are going to help me here, in this place. I know you will wait. I know you will speak.

But here's what I don't know.
Who else?

Everyday People

"I don't have any friends."
She said it drunk. She said it after she laughed so hard she just might pee. She said it after we bonded over pickle juice and whiskey. She said it perched on a stool with laughter coming out of her mouth and sadness making her eyes bright.
They say a drunk never lies.

I knew she meant every single word.

I don't have any friends.

What do you mean, I asked her? Your friends are here.

No. No, these are people I used to know. I don't have any friends now.
I have no one. I'm all alone.

She looked at me, eyes glazed with Christmas red and eyeliner that had given up hours earlier, and asked the same question I have begun to ask myself, "How did this happen?"

And long after we had moved on in conversation, long after I had puked up the trendiest line of shots I've ever done while sitting cross-legged on a bathroom floor, long after we were dropped off at our hotel and I realized I forgot my new beanie in their car, long after more ounces of iced coffee a person should consume in one sitting was drunk in tired desperation, and long after I arrived back home to wash party clothes still clinging to last nights smokes, her words haunted me.

I had no idea a drunken conversation at a Christmas party would stick with me like a shadow. Always at the peripheral, showing itself just enough to let me know, I'm right behind you.

I am almost 40 and I have close to zero friends.

I'm not talking about the life friends that you call if you lose your job, or your husband has an affair, if your mom is dying of cancer, or your kid came home to tell you they are pregnant. We all have these friends, right? When something major starts throwing down on your life, they will suddenly show up,
and shoulder you up.
They will let you cry, and be afraid, and wait for you to settle enough to get in your face with harsh realities and "pull-up-your-big-girl panties-you're-stronger-than-this-shit" lectures, just in time for you to get brave again. Yes.
I have these friends, the Rally-ers. The Charge-ers. The Cheer-ers.
I am grateful for them because guess what folks? These times are coming. They come to all of us.

No. I'm talking about the everyday friend. The one who is there for the ins and the outs of the mundane and the frustrating. The one who meets you for a coffee and a beer.
Preferably at the same time.
The one who calls on a Wednesday to see if you want to get together Friday. The one who doesn't bother to clean their house when you come over because that's just how real it is now. Piles of laundry and dog hair in tufts on the floor be damned. The one you can text while you're at Target to say, "Which doormat? The one with flowers or the bike and flowers?"
The one who sends you a quick text to say, "hey!!! thinking about you. Let's kick some ass today!" The one you can complain to about not getting laid in over a week. The one you can say, "I just don't feel enough today - do you think Jesus is giving up on me?" The one who reminds you Jesus never gives up on you, and hey, neither will I.

Everyday friends are important. Necessary. Breath.

I know. Life has different stretches for all of us. And there's a time and a place for different people as we walk down our roads.
I know. This is true. We grow. We change. I know.

But I also know this is bullshit.
We invite the people we want to walk with us,
and we leave the rest behind.

Have you ever been in the "leave the rest behind" group? (insert hand raised emoji here.)
It sucks ass doesn't it? ( and insert poop emoji here.)

I am so guilty. So guilty of saying, hey! Let's get together soon! And having absolutely no intention of hanging out. In six months. Or maybe even ever.
I'm just being polite. Everyone knows how to play the polite game.

I'm not talking about polite. I'm not talking about acquaintance pleasantries.
I'm talking about people who were your people and now they are not. Or you aren't sure.
Which is almost worse.

And our culture right now makes it so hard to say that, doesn't it?
So hard to say,
I miss you.
Why don't we talk anymore?
What happened?
You're my friend and I need you.

We can't say that. It makes us needy. It makes us high-maintenance. It makes us jealous.

When really, we aren't any of those things. Maybe all we are is sad.

These things can get messy and I'm not trying to get messy. Six months ago, a year ago, it would have been real messy. I'm talking fat-tears and snot-river messy. I'm talking emotions stretched and frazzled and waving white flags with middle fingers while screaming and crying "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Why is this happening? I"M SORRY!!!" And you have no idea what you are apologizing for but you just want to make it better and also go away.

Messy.

I'm not messy right now. I am observant. A little bewildered. A lot reflective.

And I am sure I am not the only one.

Here's what I am learning.

I'm doing ok by myself.
Now, we aren't built to be on our own f o r e v e r by any means. Humans are designed for relationship.
But it's good to be alone and work your thoughts and see what you are capable of,
and what you are not.
We all need to know this.

Also, I'm walking in a new way with Jesus. Rather than talking to my everyday friend and then going to Jesus, I am now going to Jesus (or Jeff. I'm not perfect here) and then,
that's it.
There's no everyday friends to bounce it back off of. To clarify. To affirm.
It's Jesus and me. And that can be brutal and beautiful all at once. You know what I mean if you've had to do this. There's a realness in my talk with God. It's so real in fact that sometimes I wonder if I am slipping backwards.
When pretense and "supposed to's" are waved out of the way, when walls are walked around and you're just standing there, all raw and exposed and blinking, it's unsettling. Wobbly.

And in nervousness or conviction or repentance or need,
You get down with the Lord. You let it all hang out because well, there aren't any closets, or any hat racks for that matter. There are only your hands and your heart and you figure what else can you do but open it real wide and just let him see it all?
He's going to keep on loving you or he's a liar.

And also , it's ok to be me.
It's ok to say, "I need this." And it's ok when someone else says, "I can't give that to you."
It's ok to know what makes me feel special and how I like to connect. It's ok when other people are not capable of making that connection.
We all have our own stretch of road.
My fear,
my fear,
my fear though,
is that we will give up too quickly and realize too late,
it was something worth digging for, worth suffering for, worth doing more,
for.

But we'll have told ourselves,
I'm too busy
I'm too hurt
We're too different.

And we'll all become people we used to know.

Interruptions

I am learning sometimes the dream has to wait.
Be put on hold.
Go on a bathroom break.
Clock out for ten minutes. Or maybe even ten days.
Life interrupts.
Or rather, people do. People we love.
Our tribe. Our family. Our friends.
Life is never neat. And no matter how many to-do lists I have or how many items I cross off, it's never as organized as I try to make it either.
I write.
And when I am not writing I am thinking about writing. Feelings become describable and words become life. It's all I can do to scribble them down in my notebook or record it in my iphone as a barely deciphered "note' before I forget. And let's be honest, Siri doesn't get it ya'll. All the updates in the world hasn't fixed the words lost in translation just yet.

Even as I try to write this, my computer has shut down, restarted, and begun to download Windows 10.
Mid-type. Three consonants in.
Interruptions.

(sigh)

I am inspired as much as the next person by all the affirming slogans and handmade signs reminding us to, Be You!, Follow your Happy, and Just Write.
I hang these on my walls,(a lot you guys. Instagram is taking ALL MY MONEY) and would gladly purchase all the buttons and totes and stickers in my feed, if that would make them all come true.
But can I be real here?
For just a sec?

I can't do that all the time. Even if it's penciled in. Even if it's important.

And I'll tell you why.

My husband is going gangbusters in his business. And watching him swells my heart and make me wish for a set of pom-poms. That's how stinkin' proud I am.
But guess what it means?
Long nights in the office for him.
Dinner clean up and dishes for me. (or better known as - No writing.)
I have a daughter who is moving out in ONE DAY (sob sob just kidding. I'm happy. But then I'm sobbing too so basically I'm a mess), and if she has a story to tell or if she just wants to sit on the couch and Friends it out - I'm down. Like James Brown. I'm going to sit on that couch with her and not move. Because guess what folks?
The season of Sammi is coming to an end. I know it. She knows it.
The adulting that has started knows it, and once we adult we can't kid again. Not in the same way.
So I'm soaking it up. Every sigh. Every MOM. Every scare as I walk out of the bathroom and she throws the embarrassment up on Snapchat. Every frustration with the utility company and every excitement of a room that almost sits empty.
Next week it will be Jeff's new office. A restart of something we can't even grasp.
But this week,
this week,
it is being hallowed out.
Just like me.

I sat in the middle of her floor after we sold her bed and I tried hard not to cry.

There's always something. I know. I'm pounding this out on my lunch hour instead of walking. So there's that. My writing is done but my exercise and fresh air is taking the hit.
It's ok. One thing is always going to cancel out another.

So here's what I am saying ...
Be You.
Follow your Happy.
Just Write.

But know that some days your happy is going to look different than you expected. It's not going to be written on your list or located in your calendar.
I think these can be some of the best kinds of happy though. Interruptions are God things. It's when He redirects us.
It's when he whispers, "oh no .. you think that's THE most important thing but THIS is...."
I think we can miss it though. I know I can.
I miss it in the midst of my guilt.
The constant chatter.
"You didn't work out. You didn't write. You didn't get the laundry done. You forgot stamps. You need more eggs. You didn't write the card. You didn't call your friend. You didn't spend enough time with Jacob."


and on and on and on and on.

There's a name for this radio station friends. I'll share it with you another day. Just know,
you are not alone,
AND,
turn the station off.

We are all doing the best we can.
Some days I am going to bang out twenty pages of my book.
Other days I'm going to stare at my outline for hours without writing one word. (hellooooo all last week!)

Some days,
you are going to get to each thing on your list. You'll feel accomplished and stretch hard to pat yourself on the back.
Other days,
you are going to wonder who hijacked your life.

But then you'll realize,

it's everyone you really love.

And all the things that make your Happy.

XO

Food-Pushers Unite

My kids call me The Food Pusher. It's true. It's like a drug pusher except without the drugs.
But we say the same things, in hopes of the same goal; they are going to take me up on it and they are going to like it.

"Come on, just try it."
"It's so good. You don't know what you are missing."
"This. This right here? It's a little piece of heaven."
And in desperation only the mom at her wits end of a picky eater knows, the classic, "You'll be cool. I'll think you are the coolest if you just try
one. little. bite."

It makes no difference how old they are either. My kids at home are twenty and sixteen, plenty old enough to fend for themselves if the onset of starvation happens while I am at work.

But I offer anyway. I practically get on my knees and beg them to eat.
Just like I did when they were three.

Oh you only like Circle K rotisserie hot dogs? Let's go!
Frozen burritos that basically look like bandaged diarrhea? SURE!
Frozen pizzas that taste like lost frisbees drizzled in expired tomato sauce? No problem.
Quesadillas at morning, noon. or night? It's on like donkey kong. Or Taco Bell.

Just let me see you eat.

And let's be honest. If you judge me based on the three things my son eats most,and the go-to for my daughter; I sound either sloppy and terrible or the coolest mom ever; depending on who you are asking.

And we really DO want to ask someone, sometimes, don't we?
Grab another Mom's arm like a life preserver and sputter out our need for validation and an "atta girl." Buoy me up for another day please.


I think I am a pretty good mom. On the "will-they-go-to-therapy-scale?" I'd give myself a two. Maybe a four?
I mean, I've got three of them, my oldest and second oldest (NOT middle! AVOID SAYING MIDDLE FOR THE LOVE OF PEACE AND QUIET) are in their early twenties and so far, not any visible damage. Of course, my son is still home for another year and there's still time to screw with his head pretty good but I would say most mistakes were made in the early years.

Hopefully early enough that they have forgotten. Or those memories have been replaced.
Upgraded.
Mommy version VI.

Of course there are a few that get brought up constantly. Like, "Mom remember when you used to set the timer and you told us if we didn't eat our dinner before it went off you would beat us?"
Yes. Yes I do. I'm SO glad you remember too since it is one of my BEST mommy moments.

On the upside, my grocery bill was low.

Or brought up even more recently,
"Hey MOM. Remember that time Bre did somethingsomethinsomething and you took down her Justin Timberlake poster and hung it up in YOUR room."
Um, Yes. I wish I could remember what it was she did exactly, but maybe I just had a hankering to see JT on my wall?
Possible. Plausible. Whatever.

These, of course, are small examples.
The bigger ones are so much harder to write.
Because secretly we are all hoping we do so much better than our own parents, right?
I mean, I would NEVER .... and then I do.
And everything I value and hold close and wave the white hat of I AM A BETTER MOMMY THAN YOU falls around me in prickly pieces of judgmental glass.

Like the time I called my son an asshole and watched the wound spread slowly across his face like a darkening cloud before a cold rain.
Then I burst into tears.

I started my period two days later. Obviously I was under duress from the emotional hijackers that live inside my body before they give up on anything tangible happening and bleed out.
But that's besides the point.
(ps-I recently purchased a "girl business" zippy pouch that says "oh my bloody hell". I think everyone in the house identifies with the sentiment)

What is the point?
Parenting is hard. And inconvenient.
And scary.
We are all going to make a lot of mistakes.

About fifteen years ago I fell down the stairs outside my apartment. As I skidded down the concrete steps on my knees and landed on all bloody fours, all I could think was,"Oh My GOD. Did anyone SEE that?!"
Not, maybe someone will help me.
Not, someone is going to ask if I'm ok.
But only, did anyone see me practically face plant and make a complete jackass of myself?
That's parenting.
All the time.


We're going to fall asleep on the couch with our baby in the crook of our arm and only wake up because we hear them thunk to the floor.
We're going to be so tired from the complete lack of sleep that we barricade our toddler in the living room with us and "A Whole New World" lulls us to genie land, on the cheerio sprinkled floor.
We're going to wake up late and get our kids to school with nothing more substantial than a pop-tart for breakfast. On test day.
We're going to get lost in the happy zone at Target and then hear our name reverberating over the store intercom. Hi there, mum-of-the-year. You lost your child.
Nice one.

We're going to have our kids give us a fun pop-quiz with super hard questions like, "when's my birthday?" And then watch them look at us in disappointment and horror when it takes longer than five seconds for us to remember which one is theirs.

We're going to buy store-bought cookies and brownies for the bake sale.
Enough said.

We might call our kids a bad name.
We might even enjoy it for just a teeny tiny split of a second when we do because let's face it -
we hold that shit in all the time.

We're still regular people.
We just have other people looking to us for love and acceptance all the time.

No pressure.

We're going to have other parents shake their heads and cluck their tongues and we're going to try really hard to remember we are a contributing member of society and not throat-punch them.
We're going to have strangers yank out their binky in the middle of the mall and coo "oh you sweet little puh puh puh. You don't need that thing stuck in your mouth do you?"
And you're going to remind yourself it isn't ok to push down grandmas.
We're going to overhear someone we trust, someone who's supposed to be in our tribe, talk about us and our lack of parental skills and it's going to sting. We might cry. Just for a second.
And then we might get really pissed and think of all the awful ways THEY parent instead. It's not "nice" but it will make you feel better. Better enough to not claw their eyes out.

We're going to wish for a pedicure by ourselves, for a glass of water that doesn't have floaties in it, for sex that isn't muffled in a pillow, for toilet time with our favorite magazine, for a bra that doesn't smell like breast milk. Or vomit.
We're going to try and learn common core math and feel like the biggest idiot on the planet when we don't get it and realize we can't help our second grader do their homework.
We're going to try not to hate their teacher for sending this crap home.
We're going to breathe deep and not freak out over their room that has exploded with clothes (Are they dirty? Are they clean?)and empty mountain dew cans and a floor littered with pink squiggly wrappers from their maxi-pads.
We are going to give them "space."
And then a week later we're going to say, "Screw this effing space crap!" and yell at them to clean their room before we throw away everything in it except their bed and underwear.
We are going to do our best to not seem psychotic.
We are going to tell ourselves this is normal.
We are going to hope that's true.

Moms. Mothers. Mums. Ma's. Mommy's.
It is true.
You are doing the best you can.

And if it makes you feel like you're excelling at the mom-job to offer them a mom-made sandwich, an apple and peanut butter, a slice of chocolate cake you just frosted; then go ahead and do it.
Food pushers unite.

XO



-

THINGS that are HARD to SwaLLoW

THINGS that are HARD to SwaLLoW:
Warm milk in the desert, mid-day.
Prenatal Vitamins in your first trimester.
Peanut butter.
The thick outcome of oral sex.
Preachers who sermonize about lust while driving their Cadillacs, staring at hookers.
The smell of period farts.
A mouthful of skittles when you're stoned.
Smiling in spite of hurt feelings with a repeat offender.
Rejection.
Pride.
My words when confronted with your ego.

Let's break up with the idea of us.
I want to unclog my throat.

Difficult people is a mandatory in life. They rub us like sandpaper against a raw sunburn. Like a side cramp in mile five, with two more to go, they cause us to clutch and limp, and for goodness sake, breathe in your nose and out your mouth, and keep that shit even.

But they also challenge us to be our better self.
Rise above.
Whether it's the idea of not wanting to be anything like them, or if we go deeper into some kind of Jesus calling to love thy neighbor;
even if it is with clenched fists and grinding teeth.
We reach out, we "like", we ask for visits, we LOL; knowing each time the response is a haughty, pointed, silence from an impenetrable wall.
Ah.
But is that love I'm really showing?
I'm not sure. Probably not the pure kind.
I can tell you what it is though, it is an effort. And if that kind of effort is being given, there is love somewhere, for someone, motivating it's continuance.

I've reached some sort of self-inflicted rejection limit.
I've never really mastered the social angst of high-school; cowering beneath any type of Queen Bee. I was more of a "here's-my-middle-finger-why-don't-you-suck-it" kind of girl.
I'd like to think I've grown a little. Learned to give a measure of grace.
I mean, there is Jesus.
Although I picture him constantly shaking his head in exasperation, I'd like to think every now and again he gives me a heavenly high-five.
So,
I try to keep my middle fingers to myself.
And I also try to remember, we are walking a path unique to each one of us, and sometimes that path is rocky, steep, and hot damn if I don't keep stumbling over that same freakin' boulder. Someone please give me a leg up or let me learn to go around it already.
And also, maybe I am someone else's boulder too. There is that.

It is asked I turn my cheek. And then the other one,
It is not required I lay down on the floor and allow another human, no matter their position, pass over me as if I don't exist.
We both know I am here.
We both know how hard it's pretended I am not.

I'm going to let us off the hook.
I'm going to make it easier for us to swallow.
I'm not going to entice you to like me anymore. No more auctioning off myself in bewildered bits and placating pieces, to someone who continues to look at me like a garage sale slip of underwear.

Here's a truth that's real for everybody; most certainly a truth I grabbed a hold of at age nine and held it close to my chest as a vigilant shield, or swung it like a bat if someone came pitching at me with their small, teeth-barring, lies.
I decide what I am worth for myself.
If I don't, some asshat struggling with their own value and usefulness is going to decide it for me, and it will always be at a clearance price.
If I don't set a boundary, someone unworthy of my core self, will cross it
every. single. time.

Why?

It can be because they think they are better than you.
It can be because they are intimidated by you.
It can be because they are jealous of you.
It can be because they don't know how to handle you.
Or it can be because they don't know any better. (But come on. Unless they are four years old .... bullshit)
No matter which reason it is, every single one is unacceptable.
Each one is small.

We are ALL worth something. To God. To ourselves. To the ones that love us.
We are NOT always liked. Or appreciated. Or valued.
By our own tribe or the masses.

Choose your people. Choose who speaks into you and over you.
You can't help who speaks about you.
But you, and me, we can choose what we listen to, what takes root, what grows, and what we let go of.

XO

the sick people

Later, Levi invited Jesus and his disciples to his home as dinner guests, along with many tax collectors and other disreputable sinners. (There were many people of this kind among Jesus’ followers.) But when the teachers of religious law who were Pharisees saw him eating with tax collectors and other sinners, they asked his disciples, “Why does he eat with such scum?”

When Jesus heard this, he told them, “Healthy people don’t need a doctor—sick people do. I have come to call not those who think they are righteous, but those who know they are sinners.”
- Mark 2:15-17

And in two verses, everything I love about Jesus is summed up.
If this were an instagram post I'd have to hashtag it; #dropthemic.

Let's get something clear.
Jesus was a radical badass. He was The MAN. Speaking to the ones everyone else shunned. Healing those that everyone else had forgotten.
He crossed every societal boundary and snubbed every stance of pretension.
He was the ultimate rebel of love.
Jesus took zero craps from anyone pretending to be greater than what they were; extending instead, endless love and bottomless mercy to those the "holy" deemed undeserving.
Jesus was not impressed by the exterior show of purity.
His bullshit detector was on point.
And when he said to love your neighbor, he showed us how. Jesus would have treated everyone with the same hand if they had let him. It's baffling to think the ones that took his hand were the adulterers, the cheaters, the liars, the oppressed, the poor, the cast-out, and the lepers.

I can only assume it is because they knew, just as I know, the last sentence in the verses above, is their truth.

"...but those who know they are sinners."

They knew exactly who they were,
what they lacked,
and their indescribable need for HIM.
Nothing else would satisfy.
All else had been tasted and the soul was left,
wanting.

But we all know. Don't we? When we really get to the push and the shove and the let go of it?
We all know.

I am far, far, far, from anything close to resembling Jesus. The more I get to know HIM, the more I want to hide.
And yet, I also want to run.
To Him
As fast as I can, arms out, hair flying, mouth panting,
JesusJesusJesus.
I want him to swoop me up.
I want him to rain all over me.
I want his light to break apart all the pieces of my dark.
I want his love to pour in and flow out.
I want people to see Him; see Him in me.
I want it to give them hope.
Just like it gave me hope, when I saw Him, for the very first time.

I cannot say it enough.
Oh how he loves. Oh how he loves. Oh how he loves.
Us.

XO

It was a wedding morning

I couldn't believe it when he walked away from me. I inhaled deeply on my smoke and tried to calm down. My emotions jumped around like fleas on a rabid animal. It was hot, right here in the Econo Lodge parking lot. I thought of one thing (flowers), then another (where's my flat iron?), mentally making a list (tissues, cell phone, lip gloss)- don't forget (the flowers!). Remember that(sand).

I took another drag and focused on the blue sky, avoiding leaning on my car, covered in country dust.
I should have smoked hours earlier.
A break was a good idea.
But there wasn't time. There still wasn't. Not really. But if I didn't have this right now, I was going to lose it. I just wanted quiet. For three minutes.
Quiet.
And I desperately needed a hug. The sureness and strength of his arms. That would settle my nerves.

God knows my frantic panic prayers of "help me, sweet Jesus" weren't working.

I glanced behind me and he was still gone.

Dropping the butt to the ground, I stubbed it haphazardly with my toe and grabbed my phone, forcefully pecking out an adolescent text to my struggling husband, with my newly nailed finger.

thanks a lot. you're awesome.

Which, on that day, loosely translated to, "Where. The. Hell. Are. You. Going?"

He came back to me, his eyes frazzled and distracted, looking at my arms full of bouquets, a dress, and a box of converse; and he asked, in a calm I wished I felt, "What can I do?"

The unruffled mother/wife I had envisioned I would be this day, delegating tasks with a generous,sunny smile and a dollop of rainbows, while I walked in serenity through the ceremony chairs, praying , had evaporated about two hours before.
It became painfully obvious to me I had watched way too many Jennifer Lopez movies in the past week.
And I was almost as unholy as Satan himself.

A really great wife would have just answered the question. What could he do?

I wish I could tell you I was a really great wife. I really do.

I did the exact opposite.

Worse than the opposite.

I completely lost my shit.
I stood at the bottom of the concrete stairs, in the hotel parking lot, exposed in the sun and the rawness of my frustration, and I unraveled like a ball of worn-out yarn in the hands of an experienced cat.

Obscenities punctuated obscenities which then turned into questions with obscenities, and ended in declarations and more obscenities.
Clearly, "fuck" had become my favorite word.

When I finally stopped and looked up, a grandmother stood on the stairs, eyes full of understanding and a little bit of pity.
Awkward.
I was caught in a moment rarely seen outside the safety of my own home and my husband's forgiveness.

I wish I could tell you I felt really bad about it.
But I didn't. I felt relief.
I kind of wished I had done it sooner.

He still didn't get it.Not quite. I am guessing all my cursing gave him the hint something was a little off, but he still wasn't sure about the particulars.

And so he asked again.

"Babe. What can I do?"

And then I couldn't speak. The words tumbled through my throat and got stuck with tears. My mouth was quiet but my head screamed.

Do? Do!
I don't want you to do anything. I just want you to be.
Be with me.
Stand next to me.
Let's watch her together.
Our daughter is getting married today.
Can we stop doing for ten minutes and savor it?

Do you get it?
Do you understand?
I'm never going to see her like this again.
I'll never get this day, this moment, that smile, her laugh, the teasing, a glass of champagne from a pink bottle, the flitter of all her friends as they come in and out of her room, in various stages of bridesmaid dress.
This is it .
This is it and I have already missed so much.
I've been gone all morning, making decisions; where to put this and what about that? Can we add something here, take away from there?
Arranging and answering and conversing with people I don't know and may not ever see again.
All I want to do is sit and watch. For just a moment.
Sit.
and watch.
Her.

All the while, her hair is being brushed, curled, sprayed.
Her makeup has been swept across her face, eyeliner penciled on, mascara brushed to her lashes.
I've missed it.
Did she laugh the whole time? Did her eyes light up? Did she get a nervous giggle? Did she and her bridesmaid make a toast? Did she have help putting on her garter belt?
Don't you understand?
She doesn't look like my little girl anymore.
She already looks like someone else,
a bride,
an almost wife,
and I missed it.

Do?
I don't want you to do anything. I want you to be.
Be with me.

I thought of my own wedding day and how terrified I was.

My own mom was not there. She never saw me get giddy in nervousness and laugh with my bridesmaids. She doesn't know we ate donuts that morning. She doesn't know one of my maid-of-honors had to hike up her skirt and readjust her undergarments on the front porch during pictures so the photographer went ahead and snapped that too. She doesn't know my favorite Latina applied my make up while joking about boobs and sex and men, while punctuating every joke with a high-pitched laugh and a "right, Shannon? Right?!" She wasn't there when I got out of the car and made my way to hide in the bedroom. She wasn't there when I walked out with my dad, who was trying so hard not to cry himself, and instead said low, "Let's do this" as we stepped out to Etta James. She wasn't there to see my bridesmaids get too drunk to make a coherent speech and swat at bees.
And she wasn't there to soothe my feelings when my new family made hushed, pointed comments about people "already leaving."
My mom missed it all.

The empty spot of my mother remains.

I will always hold it. It doesn't matter that she's with me now. It doesn't count that I am able to call her today and catch up or meet her for coffee and a walk. Precious times, every single one, but it doesn't make her magically appear in all the other parts.
She will be forever missing from those memories.

And I knew I would be missing from not just some of Bre's, but also some of my own, in order to help create others. In being absent, I was giving her my own gift.

A wedding of her dreams. A wedding to remember.
And it was!
It was perfect and beautiful and lovely.

But standing in the hotel parking lot, with the sun beating down on my head, and an armful of bouquets, and a husband torn between staying at my side and going back to his parents, I did not know yet that was going to happen.
I only knew I needed him and I needed to be with her.
Just be.
For a small moment.

Do? I don't want you to do anything. I don't have a list. There's nothing to be fixed.

Take my hand.
Let's walk up the stairs. Let's sit in the room that's exploded in clothes and makeup and champagne.
Let's watch her with her friends. Let's capture the finishing touches.
Let's be.
Jeff grabbed the flowers. He kissed my forehead.
And that's exactly what we did.

XO

Orchids and Calle Lillies

I have mercifully discovered Pinterest can turn the average mama into a florist, a caterer, an entertainer, and a wedding coordinator.
Well, Pinterest, You Tube, Hobby Lobby, and about five million dollars.

I finished my daughter's bridal bouquet yesterday morning at 7am. My bed had become the most comfy of craft centers; tape, ribbon, scissors, pliers, pins, wire, with a side table of coffee and an ipad of Friends. When I put the final pin in place, I held up the bouquet in some kind of fanatical awe. I basically felt like I had managed world peace all on my own.
Or at least avoided the mother-lode of melt-downs.
Until I saw the ONE flower.
Again.
This flower ya'll.
I have battled it for three days.
Three.
No matter where I placed it or how I bent it, it would fit into place, a perfect match with all the other flowers, and two minutes later, it would twist again, just enough to be obviously different.
Just enough to drive me crazy.

In my last post I talked about the pressure of wanting to make everything perfect in this wedding, which is so laughable because how does anyone who is imperfect (and oh the list of imperfections!) create something perfect? Exactly.

Have you ever made a bouquet?
Until now, me either. I am not crafty. I do not have an "eye" for these things. My gift is to rely on my talented friends, which unfortunately, was not an option this time around.
For better or for worse, I was on my own.
So I did what anyone this decade would do and I You Tube'd it.

Each video I watched, showed to gather three flowers at a time, then tape. Three more, then tape. Add another three, and then tape some more. This is what keeps the flowers in place and enables you to add to the bouquet without all the flowers slipping through your fingers and onto the floor. It helps it hold its shape.

My problem flower was somewhere at the beginning. I couldn't take it out unless I wanted to start over.
For the fourth time.

I stared at this flower; eyes narrowed, contemplating how I could rip the bloom out and be done with it. Make like the Queen of Hearts and, "Off with her head!"

Instead, I kept going. I was so close. My adhesive covered fingers ached for the finish.
Maybe if I taped enough, if I added more flowers, if I squeezed it tighter, it would be forced to stay in its place.


My chest is tight and I am fighting back tears,
right this second,
as I type.

I am on the couch, slippered feet crossed on the ottoman, headphones on listening to Coldplay, pillow on my lap, computer on top of pillow, and about 45 minutes ago, I told my family, "I've got to write."
Typically when I write, I hide out in my room, hunkered down for at least an hour with the door closed.
But my in-laws are sleeping in my room; hence the headphones on the couch so I can block out my son, who is watching Dragon BallZ, and my husband who is working from the yoga mat laid out on the floor in front of me, (my daughter called him an oxymoron for doing this and I just about died laughing), and my daughter who is doing her make-up while watching something ridiculous from her ipad.

I knew I had to write. I could feel it in my fingers, the push of words, but honestly ya'll, I had something completely different in mind.

Something about the rehearsal and how I tried not to cry from this joy I have never felt before.
Something about motherhood and how for the first time in a long time, I am standing at a precipice of complete unknowns and my emotions are tumbling around inside me like a dryer full of exploding rainbows.
Something about the dinner I hosted at my home last night for the wedding party and all the family,and it was nerve-wracking and incredibly perfect at the same time.
Something like that.
Nothing about bouquets.

But you know, the heart lets out what wants to be free, what wants to be known.

In a beautiful bouquet of orchids and calle lillies, all perfectly aligned and in place, there is just one.
One that will not conform.
One that will not be adapt.
One that will not be twisted and turned and molded and plied, into something it is not.
It will not look right when it wants to look left.
It will not bend when it wants to stand straight.

It will not look like the others. It will be what it is.
And nothing I do will change it.

And now I am still trying not to cry because my mother-in-law is up and talking to Jeff and I'm still in my headphones,
writingwritingwriting,
and I don't want her to look at me weird and think I am weird, but honestly, I am caring less with each letter that gets punched out.

I should be more like that flower.
We all should.
And it is so fitting that it is my daughter's bouquet, her wedding bouquet. It is so fitting that it is her.

She is in the service. She knows all about conformity and adapting and doing what she is told.

And she does what is required of her. This is her job, her actions.

But her spirit, all the stuff inside of her that beats and moves and loves,
it does not bend when she'd rather stand straight,
it does not look right if she wants to look left,
it is not twisted and turned and molded and plied, into something she is not.

She is as brave as this flower.
Simply by being what she is and refusing all she is not.

I want to be this brave too.

XO

Mother-of-the-bride

In one week my daughter will wake up with a new name.
In six days I will watch her have her make-up done,
slip into her wedding dress,
cover her face with a veil.
I wonder if she will laugh in nervousness? Cry in excitement?
I wonder if she will notice as her hands shake when she takes her dad's arm and begins the procession towards her soon-to-be husband? I wonder if her voice will catch on a ball of tears as she repeats her vows? I wonder if she will laugh instead because she cannot contain her happy.
All of these thoughts, and more, slip in and out of my focus today, as I count centerpieces, check off wedding favors, and scribble a new list of last-minutes.


She looked like Snow White when she was little. All that pale skin and dark hair with big, blue eyes that absorbed the world. It's hard to convince people how shy she was in her early years. Introverted. That's what the teachers called her.
She doesn't say a lot.
She doesn't have very many friends.
Of course, the anxiety started immediately. I worried she would grow up friendless and lonely, wearing an obscene amount of black eyeliner with combat boots to make the statement she didn't need anyone, but would cry in the bathroom stall at school because no one would speak to her. She wouldn't have a boyfriend, go to prom, or have sleepovers with her 4 closest friends. I wouldn't hear them all squeal when talking about the cute boys while demolishing bags of potato chips. Oh, how I worried.
You know, like any mother would.

It was at her 3rd grade parent/ teacher conference when we were asked to speak to her about talking in class.
She was a chatterbox and it was distracting.
Her dad and I nodded our heads in agreement, dutiful parents who are taking the teacher's recommendations seriously, but when we walked out of the class and around the corner, we high-fived each other in triumph.
She's talking! Too much, even! And she has friends!! Parent win! (all the flexing, fist bump emojis here)
And we never brought it up to Bre.

Last week, while I sat on a green rug, in an unfamiliar living room, with eight other people I am still getting to know, a sweet friend, said a prayer for me.

"Lord, don't let all the preparation steal her joy. Let her enjoy this time with her daughter, this time of her wedding."

The simplicity and truth of it was so profound, it knocked the breath right out of me.

Sometimes when people pray, I am fervently trying to focus on what they are saying but actually thinking, "Oh my gosh - are they ever going to stop? This is taking f o r e v e r." (we've ALL thought this. COME ON.)

But not this time. Not this prayer. I wanted to stop time for just a little bit, seconds even, to let it soak all the way in. I wanted to grab her hand, and say,
wait,
slow down,
say it again,
say it ten times.
I can't forget this.

It was truth and need. It was spirit interceding for spirit. It was God seeing me when I hadn't asked him to.

You see, so much had been hard to enjoy. Oh sure, a few glimpses, some smiles and laughs, ... but mostly, moments of being happy she was enjoying the process, not because I was.

I know. It isn't about me. It's not. I am SO THANKFUL she is having every precious second of this process. I pray always it is, and will be, everything she hopes and more.
But there is a place for me too.
As her mom.
As the one who carried her in my body, whispered in her ear, cheered her achievements, listened to her dreams, prayed for her wisdom, and loved her through every second of her life. I have held her heart, her victories, her secrets, her disappointments, her wailing's, and her pain.
I have held it all inside my body as if it were my own, letting it beat with my beat and breathe with my breath.
And now, the next thing, the next beautiful step, just days away.

There hasn't been any time to sit and savor.
The list much too long. Time much too short.
And me, much too inadequate.
All this wedding planning and crafting and doing has left me feeling very small.
This is a job for someone else. Someone who knows how to decorate, and entertain, and be all things girly.
Someone who is not me. Someone who is better.
And this is the time I certainly cannot fail. I cannot. I must do the BEST job for her.
My best is not even good enough.

It must be perfect. It is her wedding.

And so to compensate for all my short-comings I am painfully aware of, I am unable to sit in any one thing for more than a few minutes before my mind begins jumping into the next to-do.

I had unconsciously crossed over from a Mary to a Martha.
And in doing so, I had let every opportunity for joy and excitement, slip into the crevices of lists and worry and an abyss of self-doubt.

Thank God for honest (and to the point) prayers.

I'll tell you the first time I really let myself live as mother-of-the-bride.
Not semi-wedding planner. Not list maker. Not bouquet taper.
Just her mommy.
I was stopped at a red light on a country road and I checked my Facebook.
Her post from minutes before was the first in my feed.

"Ten more days until I marry my best friend!"

I remember how I felt when I married my best friend.
I remember the thrill, the giddy, the shout-it-from-the-rooftops-I-want-the-whole-world-to-know-I-am-almost-hitched euphoria.
And I could feel it in my daughter's post. I could picture the giant smile on her face. I could imagine the dreams in her head, all hearts and waterfalls and big blue ocean.
And I began to cry.
Because guess what everyone?
MY DAUGHTER IS GETTING MARRIED!!!

My daughter, the once shy chatterbox who is now a fearless woman with a heart that sees; is going to walk down the aisle and start her own life, with all its twists and turns and road bumps, with her best friend.

I have one week left.
One week left to savor every second. One week left to be needed in this specific way. One week left to be her "Mommy" before she is someone else's "Wife."
I am going to try my hardest to walk this week as Mary, sitting in each precious moment, resting in my role as her mom.
I have one week left.
Let it be all joy.


XO

Text me something new

"Dang babe ... Let me know what I can do?

hold me when I cry and let me smoke my brains out.

Lol. you're awesome.

We should probably have crazy sex too. I think that will help. "
.

Jeff and I have been married almost ten years and we've been texting like horny teenagers since day 1,095.
That was the year our marriage went on an upswing and we've held it up high ever since.

We've worked hard to get to this point. Communication being the rope that binds us and texting throughout the day being a fiber of the rope.

I remember the first time I sent Jeff a text that said more than, "I love you. Have a good day."
It was a suggestion of things to come and you know, I had sweaty palms when I typed it out.
My heart thumped and my brain thumped with it, "This is stupid, this is stupid. This. Is. Stupid."
To say that it did not achieve the desired result (exhortations of want and compliments galore) is an understatement.
He was confused, speechless (textless?)and I was more than a little mortified.
Have you ever planned a romantic night, or a romantic hour after the kids have gone to bed; and you put something on other than your sweatpants and comfiest two-sizes-too-big-with-a-faded-bar-logo t-shirt, and when he walks in he kind of looks at you like you're the newest zoo exhibit and he isn't sure if he should clap or point?
Yep. Pretty much.
My disappointment covered me like a second-hand negligee.

Here's what I learned:
You can't start a team sport and not let your teammate know the sport you are playing.
So, as unsexy as it sounds, we had a full-on discussion about our word play and costume changes. The expectation, what was acceptable, what was too far, what was hot, and what was cause for a smack. And not the kind of smack that leads to a kiss.
More like a "here's the line, and look, you jumped about a mile past it" tackle.

Since then, our banter has become an avenue of communication that gets us through the day, with laughter, connection, and fun.
What's better than that? Not much.
Not even the"maybe-real-sex-but-maybe-not" that's implied. Trust me folks, there's a lot of nights of "maybe-nots."

Don't get me wrong - we text about the WalMart list and toilet paper preference too, but we don't let it stay there.
Not ever.

The first three years of our marriage were dramatic and awful. It was like fumbling around in the dark with sharp knives.
Getting to the upswing took effort that could be likened with climbing Mt. Everest.
Or swimming with sharks.
I can't tell you how many times one of us looked at the other and said, "I'm so done. I want out."
It was our saving grace that we never said it at the same time. One was willing to push through, and back down, and give gentle; while the other huffed and puffed and tried their damnedest to blow the whole city down.

Yay for upswing! A chance to get our breath, take a look around, decide if we liked the view.

We could have left it there. Let it float. Drift. Just kind of hang.

After all, wounds from sharp knives heal, but guess what? The scars still shimmer.

And so we became intentional. With our words, our time, the places we go, who we see.
This post is not about sending your spouse a sexy text. That is an oversimplification.


I hear it all the time.
"Oh well, we've been married (insert number here)years and you know, it's just not important anymore. It is what it is."

What's not important, exactly?

Remember what it was like to flirt? The thrill that would start somewhere in your body and shoot out of your fingers and blaze from your eyeballs? To feel the quiver in your belly? And when he/she looked at you a certain way, to feel a quiver everywhere else?

Jeff and I went to a marriage counselor for a year and half. There's something to say about having an objective person there while you get it all out. During one session, she looked at us and said, "You know, despite everything being said (and some pretty terrible things were being said), and everything you guys are going through, I can see that you are friends.You actually like each other."

She went on to say she doesn't see that very often. I'm not for a second trying to imply Jeff and I are the rock stars of marriage. However, we have gone to the bottom, laid in the mud, and got back up again.
Jeff and I have a lot of FUN. This is purposeful ya'll. I don't want to be with someone who bores me to death and I don't want to be the one who is boring.

It's beyond sex. It's more than bills. It's enjoying one another. And that makes everything else so much better.

Sometimes I'll look at Jeff when he walks in from work, and I have no idea what my face is showing, but Sammi will yell out, "Ewwwww MOM. STOP. IT."

And I burst out laughing because my daughter has caught me; caught me checking out my husband.

I encourage you to check out your husband.
Look at him like you used to. Smile slow. Let your hair out of the topknot. Put on some lipstick and if that doesn't work for you, tinted chap stick will do the trick.
Send him a text about more than what broke at the house or a request for milk.
Tell him you think he's hot. Tell him you appreciate him. Even better, tell him why.
You'll be surprised at what you get in return.
We all want to feel appreciated. Wanted.

It's a good thing to try something new, to stretch ourselves so much we get sweaty palms.
It's a better thing to connect.
It's more than better.. it's vital.

XO

Day 1

I haven't written in much too long. It's crazy because there is CONSTANT flow of consonants and vowels in my head. I'm always thinking, "I should write that down for later." And I never do. Then it's lost.
If you are reading this, thank you. I will never lose sight of what a privilege it is for someone else to read my musings, my struggles, my convictions. I am sure you have 283768394 other things you could be doing right now.
Laundry. Dishes. Yelling at your kids. Grocery shopping. Meal-Prepping?
Picking up your husbands dirt-crusted socks.
Oh wait ... that's all the things I could be doing. ;)
Instead I am writing.
And this is a BIG DEAL, because I always feel torn, like I'm not doing enough, and because writing is such a pleasure, I feel guilty. As if it should be a reward that comes after everything else instead of the THING that makes my heart beat faster, the THING that makes me feel like matter.

I have challenged myself to write every. single day.
Some posts may be very, very short.

Your welcome.

I am going to write about everything. I will warn you now that there may be a lot of things you don't like or agree with.
You may even decide after reading a few posts, you don't like me much at all.
That's ok.
I have this habit of broadcasting all my faults, or unappealing habits quickly, so we can both get it out in the open if I'm not going to live up to your expectations. I learned very young that LOVE was a bargaining tool and so now, when a relationship forms, I prefer to just lay it out. Before we waste too much time or get our lives all invested. I hope you stay but if you have to go, I get it. Really.

So here we go. I am a wife, sometimes not a very good one, and every day I count myself blessed to have the man that I do. I tell people all the time he is the nice one. Sometimes I get a hearty chuckle in response as if I am being coy.
I'm not.
That's straight up truth right there.
I'm a Christian. I love Jesus with everything in me and I think the church I go to is pretty fantastic.
However,
I usually prefer the company of non-Christians.
I find them refreshingly honest and I have to tell you, a whole lot funnier.
I am drawn to the hurting, the abandoned, and the looked-over. They are my people and I remind myself on the daily to never forget that.
I am a mom! Best and hardest thing I have ever done. I wish I could tell you I have been the perfect mother.
I have not.
But what I have done is raise some pretty decent humans who aren't a-holes.
They are kind. They are funny. And they see people.
That makes my heart grow more than anything.
I have a love/hate relationship with anger and confrontation. It was so much easier before I had Jesus and wanted to be more like Him and less like me. I'll tell ya, punching someone in the face puts a situation in perspective really fast but this whole "love your neighbor as yourself" thing has pretty much put a shut-down on all things physical.
And quite a few verbal.
So there's lot of praying instead.
Which is a good thing.

I want to be a good person all the time. I really do. It only gets difficult when other people are involved.
Which says a lot about my heart.
I want it to be white.
But I think it is gray, gray as concrete, with bruises of black, and a smattering of white dots.
This is exponentially whiter than it was before (and by before, I mean a whole lot of tragic crap that I'll probably get into in future posts... I know that any bad can be used for good and there's no way I am letting all that rot go to waste).

I bet you really want to read more now, don't you?
Well, I hope so. I mean that. I hope you read. I hope you comment but more than anything I hope it shines a light in some dark places of your own.
Because we all have heart damage; bruises that go deep.

Some just have white duct tape over it.

Here's to the brave and the hopeful.
We will not be disappointed.
XO