I can see clearly now . . .

This week has taught me one thing: why middle aged mothers are pudgy. I blame the husbands and children. Yep, it's all their fault. Well, maybe the chocolate I have stashed accounts for a portion, but still . . . It's a sequence that goes like this:

- You get pregnant with your first child, husband is worried sick about you miscarrying (again) so he discourages you from basically any physical activity other than getting in and out of the car by yourself.
- Your precious new little one doesn't sleep. At all. Like, seriously,  at all. No naps. Not at night. And your husband doesn't get up at night to help because he "doesn't hear her".
- After you've learned how to cope with extreme sleep deprivation you start to work out again, basically because you need some time to yourself and also because you want to prove to your husband that no, you don't do 'nothing' all day as a stay at home mom.
- Then, BAM!, you're pregnant again. You miscarry the baby, get depressed, stop eating anything good for you, stop working out, and starting baking a ton.
- Happily, you soon get another bun in the oven.
-You give birth to the little guy, lose the wait, get back in shape, and then find out that you can't eat gluten.
- Depressed because you can't eat a donut, you devour a ridiculous amount of starchy substitutes.
- Life goes on. You think you've got a handle on this and refuse to ever be 'that middle aged mom'. You know, the jaded one with the short hair and the pooch.
- A few miscarriages and years later you make it through another pregnancy and give birth to a giganto baby that nearly rips your 100 lb frame apart.
- You endure a summer of a broken stroller and pubic symphisis and a prolapsed bladder and a screwed up back that makes you feel like you are 80. You get new running shoes for your birthday thanks to your awesome hubby, after using them a few times, the pain is excruciating and  not worth it to put some miles in.
- Fall comes and you've still got a squishy tummy. Winter comes and it gets worse. Spring comes and you have ambition to get out their and get in shape.
- You and your hubby plan out which days you get to run and which ones he gets to run. Between his work schedule, his freelancing work, and his race training, there is no free time for you to run. Except for maybe 9 o'clock at night, which doesn't work because after being up the whole night before nursing and rocking your youngest who still screams through the night, and homeschooling and dealing with kids all day, then cooking/cleaning up supper, and  finally holding and caring for baby while husband draws, watches shows, or runs; when the baby finally falls asleep around 9 or 10 all you want to do is actually take a shower by yourself uninterrupted or go to sleep.
- Your hubby buys the kids a trampoline. You think it'll be a great way for you to have fun with the kids and get some cardio in. You excitedly jump in. Within 3 bounces you've peed yourself and are dying from the pain of your pubic bone.
- After stuffing a cookie in your face to relieve the stress and then changing your pants while a screaming baby holds onto your leg you realize that yes, you will in fact become a jaded, pudgy, middle aged mother just like everyone else because that's just how life is.

So, I'm a little discouraged at the moment. After writing it all down, my head and my heart feel a little bit better, but I don't want to look in the mirror. I know I'm not the only one who feels this way. I love being a mother, more than anything, and until the last few years how my body looked didn't matter much to me at all.  I've only become insecure since the commencement of motherhood.

In perspective, none of this probably matters. When I am a middle aged pudgy mom I'll probably be content with the way I spent my time during young motherhood, yet still baffled by how quickly the hours, days and years flew by, and will still be conjuring up rational one liners to say when my child or grandchild asks why I have such a squishy tummy. Motherhood is a sacrifice in more ways that I first understood. My body will  never be the same. I may never run as much as I used to. I'll be glad to make it to 40 and still be able to walk without emptying my bladder. But I don't regret them.

 I guess, overall, I'd rather have to go change my pants after bouncing around singing and  holding hands with my kids on the trampoline , than having no hands to hold.

No heels. No tofu.

 

I think these thoughts began while perusing the pages of an anniversary edition of the Betty Crocker cookbook. These ideals of the perfect housewife. And the guilt was brewing already.  They came rushing back the other day as I scrambled to clean the house before guests arrived, debating on whether I had enough time to wash the dirty dishes or if I should hide them in the oven, and whether or not I should change my clothes into something more 'suitable for company'.  

Within a month of saying "I do" I was ready to entertain. I had always enjoyed large groups of people; cooking for said groups of people. Good food and good company were some of the things I loved most about life. I especially loved impromptu tacos after church, conversations that turned into being hungry that turned into a trip to Meijer, that turned into time in the kitchen laughing or digging deep into a friends soul. The good stuff. 

But once that ring was on my finger and we had an apartment of our own, I didn't think that's how things were supposed to be done. Oh no. I had to pull out the big guns. You know, the high heels, aprons, and fancy meals that you would usually find on a nice cafe's menu. Between working, finishing up school, and being pregnant I had to find time to polish the silver and iron my husbands shirts. Not really.. . he did the ironing. I tried to once before a show he had and ruined his shirt. 

The first dinner party that we had, I spent most of our $50 a month grocery budget to make an antipasto salad, coq a vin, a dessert that I can't remember now (but it is written down in my Betty Crocker cookbook on the page meant to document your first dinner party. Gold star for documentation), and a sangria. Never mind that Jeremy wouldn't eat the antipasto salad due to the olives, nor did he drink the wine, and I hate chicken and was a vegetarian at the time. We subsisted off of ramen, rice, and pudding cups from Walmart the rest of the month. 

Life went on like this for a while until we spun 180 degrees in the other direction. Willow was a baby and I was hyper motivated to do what was best in every facet of our lives. We (well, me specifically here), were heavily influenced by friends on the other side of the spectrum. The crunchy kind. So now, not only was I entertaining guests for dinner in an apron on a shoestring, but it had to be organic! local! vegetarian! whole grain! fair trade! and be labeled with a foreign word  unpronounceable  by my husband. Pretty soon I wasn't entertaining at all because I couldn't afford anything but rice. Probably not even of the brown variety. 

Suddenly, I felt forced between entertaining people with inexpensive ingredients that I believed were harmful to one's body and may have caused harm to someone while being harvested, etc. Or giving them a very small amount of food that I could make from our local co-op, that they probably wouldn't even like to eat (I won't elaborate on the lentil soup incident) but would satisfy my conscience.  This resulted in me shutting the doors of our home to most people. Mostly out of guilt that I wasn't living up to either ideology. 

The funny thing of it all was: I was the only person, in my mind and heart, who had to meet the bar. 

People. I don't know where I'm going with this. But the short of it all is this: I love you. I love you all and I want to feed you. I want to talk over tea while our children play (loudly).  I hope you aren't offended if I don't have organic food for your kids to eat at my house, or won't judge me if there is a box of Lucky Charms on top of the fridge.  Please don't think me a cheapskate when I bring a simple dish to a potluck or compare my idea of a holiday supper to the traditional ideal. If you are at my home I'll probably serve you some sort of deer (or as the kids say "forest cow"), and  if I don't have anything else in the house I'll be happy to fry you up an egg or pop you some popcorn. I drink Tazo tea because it tastes good and doesn't cost me an arm and a leg (and a few fingers of the other hand) at the local co-op.  My house may be a mess, but I think it will at least be sanitary. My kids will most likely be in underwear and will probably be watching Netflix. I will be in the same jeans I've worn all week because I haven't had the time nor mental energy to search through the piles of unfolded laundry in my basement to get to other ones. Oh wait, I don't own other ones. . . anyway . . . 

The truth of it is: I value my relationship with you more than I care about imaginary standards of who we should be, what we should be eating, what kind of toys our kids play with, how much media time our kids consume or any of those other things mothers batter back and forth about. I will not judge you if you are the friend with the sticky toys or the one who refreshes my kids with a pitcher of Kool-Aid, and my hope is that you feel the same. 

So come on over- bring hand sanitizer (just kidding :D) and a sense of humor, there will be no heels and no tofu. 

sidetracked. . . .

Lets talk about a different kind of love. Ok. Scratch that too. Let's talk about me. Let's talk about the fact that I by nature am a push over and hate conflict. This hasn't changed since becoming a parent and it needs to. Now. Like yesterday.

I love my children. When I became a mother I searched out what parenting philosophy that I thought would be best for my kids. I wanted them to feel love, to know love, and to be love. It was all about love. Love. Love. Love.

I love them. I kiss them. I tell them multiple times a day that I love them from here to the moon. I show them love by taking an extra minute to show them how to do something. I've read and listened to 'The 5 Love Languages for Children'. I buy them things. I teach them. I spend quality time with them. I cry with them and for them. I pray for them and with them.

Until today. Exactly 3 o'clock pm today. I thought I was loving them in the best way possible.

I have a friend. She's become more than a friend and more like a second mother to me. I love this women and respect what she has to say. On Friday she told me point blank that I'm not teaching my children to honor me. *insert the feeling of both me nearly wanting to cry and feeling the Comanche blood in me flair up* I listened to her. I prayed about it. And on our walk home from the library this afternoon as Willow screamed at the top of her lungs that she was "so angry she wanted to hit me"(she didn't) and tried running away. I owned it.

In all honesty this isn't an every day occurrence. Willow has always been quick to say her please's and thank you's and is the most compassionate 4 year old I know. For the last five years I've prescribed to the thought that if I show respect to my child they will respect me. I'm not saying that there is anything false about that. But honor is different. And I'm not feeling it. It's needed. And it's my job as a parent to show them how to honor.

The rest of the day I walked around like a lost child. Where do I even begin. I sat here, trying to numb myself from the tantrum that was happening in the living room and found a blog post. I followed a link that led to another link that led me to this. It may not seem life changing to you. But I'm buying that book tomorrow and calling my friend to learn a little bit more about honor.

Choice

Choice:

1. The act of choosing; selection.

2. The power, right, or liberty to choose; option.

3. One that is chosen.

4. A number or variety from which to choose.

5. Care in choosing.

6. Alternative.

(http://www.thefreedictionary.com/)

Inspired by Erin's post and a message by our Pastor this past Sunday, I wanted to share what I'm learning about choice.

Sometime between 4 and 5 a.m. I hear his footsteps; his little grunt as he climbs onto the bed. I feel the cold of our bedroom seep under the sheets as he lifts them; putting his face to mine. His perky voice chirps, "Gikky? Heroes?". I fight the urge to cover my head and roll over, knowing that it's much earlier than I want to be up.

And that's when I get to choose. To choose to mother him whenever he needs it, despite my desire to sleep in past 5 a.m. To choose to greet him with a smile instead of a grumble. To choose to thank God for the blessing of this little boy and not resent the fact that he's an early bird. Choosing kind peaceful words instead of using a cutting, cursing, irritated tongue. In that moment I get to choose the start of our day. I know what the days are like when I choose to grumble, to ignore, to resent, and stew. It's not worth tainting a new day just to stay under warm blankets a few minutes longer.

The power to choose is sometimes overwhelming. I want to choose what seems easy. What seems easy isn't always the best choice.

I'm learning so much about choice in every area of my life. We have recently chosen to try a new church. It took us several months of back and forth before we decided to try. We were nervous about leaving a place we've called home for the larger part of 8 years, we were timid about making new acquaintances, worried about how the kids would do in the nursery/Sunday school. Despite our apprehension we felt the nudge and followed it, making the choice to step out of our comfort zone and we are feeling so blessed by it.

The Pastor shared a message about Herod and how he chose to use his hurt and anger. He asked us to look at our own life and reflect on what makes us angry. He compared our anger with Herod's and it was powerful. He suggested that most of what we get angry about can reveal areas in our life that need work, areas that we don't want to lose control of. Inspired by this I began to look closer at my everyday irritations. And it's true. It's control. I strongly desire control over what happens in my life, it gives me a sense of security and comfort. When that control is challenged or even usurped, I lose it. And by 'it' I mean control of my emotions, my power of choice, my stability and zeal as a follower of Christ.

This week I'm choosing joy. I'm choosing peace, gentleness, forgiveness, mercy, and most importantly self-control.

WIP Wednesday : My heart

Two years. She was the most influential person in my life. I went through denial; for quite a while. I avoided anything about her. Her pictures. Her grave. My family. Memories. Then I pushed away anger, swallowed bitterness; I slowly opened myself up to using things that used to be hers trying not to think that they shouldn't be in my house. And now I'm finally working on acceptance. Wondering when the day will come that I'm not wondering if she heard our favorite polka on Sunday morning, or when writing out cards or invitations when will I stop addressing one for her. It will come. Peace will come. Some day; some day understanding will come.



Until then, I'll smile when Willow talks about Polka Gramma. My heart will both bubble over with joy and sink with lament when I hear a song we both loved. Tomorrow, when I take WIllow to her first band concert, I'll tell her about the woman who put the passion in me, the one who supported me, the one who would drive in a blizzard to see me play.



She is the reason I am me. And I'll never forget that or push it away.

Friends in High places

I've wandered through life for years praying for friends. Real friends. People who you know have your back and don't care about your ugly stuff. Not just any friends. No, Mister. I was on the hunt for THE ONE. I have a long history of desiring a best friend; coveting the relationships I see others having. Stemming from first grade when my then best friend, Jolene, moved away it's been a hole in my heart that no one had yet to fill. I wanted someone who not only shared similar interests but who Daddy Oak joked was my "chick soul mate".I wanted what I saw my grandma having. Friends that she knew before kids, friends that raised their kids together, went on fun weekends away together, were there for each other through losses and divorces and in their 60's were still baking cookies and getting together on Sunday mornings after church for donuts. I wanted more than anything to find (rather to see God put together a real life "operation-friend-drop") one(or more) who I will sit over coffee with 50 years from now remembering when we weren't so wrinkled or drinking so much prune juice. Several times I've convinced myself out of desparation that this one's the one. This is. The. One. Only to have my heart ripped out a la some alien sci-fi movie.

No more! I declared. No more will I open my heart to have it so viciously (showing just a *little* of my flair for the dramatic here) ripped out. So I rolled a stone in front of it and became a cynic of friendship for over a year and a half. Done. Done I say!

But as we all know God is so funny. Ha. Ha. and here I am again. But not. My heart has recovered and through His Grace has found a new stance on friendship. I will never find The One. Because He was there all along. I was desparately searching and begging for something that only He can provide. He humored me. Loved me and brought me through the pit of despair I put myself in due to my impossible standards and state of oblivion. He is my One. He is the only one that will probably care about what I'm doing fifty years from now. He is the only one who will never shy away from my ugly stuff. He knows my ugly stuff. He LOVES my ugly stuff.

And you know what. . . through this realization He has also put many amazing people in my life. So today after an encounter yesterday with someone who two years ago I would have proclaimed as "The One", and after a night out with two friends who I will probably still be staying up late talking into the wee hours when we are in our 60's, and an instance of realizing the love of a mentor who has come into my life right at the right time: I know that I have Him and I am thankful for His love for me and His perect timing. And above all I know that He is My One. My One.

Ordinary.

Munchkin, Monster, and I have been doing many projects lately. Dirtying our hands in everything from plaster of paris to hot pink acrylic paint and laundry soap. More to come on that later. But just like the autumn leaves, too many thoughts to count have been swirling around in my head.

I haven't written here for a while. . . ok. . . a looong while. This hiatis was the result of a personal blogging crisis. Don't be alarmed, no straight-jackets were involved. But I did find myself wanting to be who I am not. And that is not something the real me who was lost in the blogging thought craziness is ok with. I found myself wanting to fit in some niche of the blogging world. Montessori. Not really. Waldorf. . . um. . . not quite (my kids do love their Dora). Ok, well then I'm a Waldorf and Montessori inspired wannabe unschooling mom who likes to craft. Actually pretty true, but is that all I want to blog about?. A frugal family trying to live a self sustained life (picturing Daddy Oak in overalls with a pitchfork in hand). Definitely not. A wanna be minimalist.. . . maybe mama, but if I let Willow take over this house anymore than I already do American Pickers would be knocking on our door. A. . . . you get the picture.

At the end of my 6 month long personal blogging crisis (during which I'm certain thoughts of committing me were entertained by a certain someone) I came up with this conclusion:

I am not going to change your life with my insightful words of wisdom. I am not going to blow your mind away with my amazing crafting/sewing skills. You won't find breathtakingly creative photos or clearly thought out deep posts on this here page. However what you will find is just me. I'm not an expert by any means in anything. I am definitely not one of those people who "has it all together" and who will be wealth of knowledge for you in your quest for the same. In real life nor in that of the cyberworld am I a well-articulated person. I haven't ever done anything super exciting that will make you envy me and follow my blog in order to remind yourself of who you wish you could be like. But by golly I love my ordinary life and that's enough for me. So if ordinary strikes your fancy, hold on to your skibbies and be sure to tune in because that is just what you'll find.