a tearful and thankful nod to kindergarten

Mrs. Brown and a group hug with her littles - 8 boys, 3 girls - before their end of the year program last week.

I’m an emotional wreck this morning. It’s the second to last day of Kindergarten for our oldest. Tomorrow, what’s become a second family to her will cease to exist. And I am grieving.

I am mourning the safety and kindness and comfort she’s been able to return to day after day for the last year. I’m grieving the innocence and freedom she’s experienced and exhibited. I’m grieving that she will never experience an environment so uninhibited and accepting and playful and authentic ever again.

Kindergarten is a unique grade, because it falls at an incredibly unique developmental stage. Innocence and impulsivity, honesty and heart, purity of personality and perspective, enthusiasm and energy, curiosity and increasing capability … they’re coming into themselves but are yet unfettered by life’s constraints (those imagined, ridiculous, and/or real). 

And, it’s just SO hard to say goodbye to this stage. 

Yes, there is new and beautiful and necessary and boundless to come … but I am so very aware (my education and profession have taught me this) it will NEVER be this way again. 

So, this week I grieve. 

She is mourning, as well. We’ve had lots of conversations about having more than one feeling at the same time and where we’re feeling it in our body and what we can/want to do with it all … 

And I’m holding her tight, marveling at this precious almost six-year-old we get to walk life alongside. She is effervescence and beauty and creativity and LIFE, and I just adore her …

Finally, I am grateful for the place she’s gotten to do school at these last three years. Grateful for the privilege to choose into it and to be present — to drop her off and pick her up and join in at times — throughout it. Grateful for the teachers she’s been taught and influenced and loved by. Grateful for the kids she’s played and fought and learned with — grateful for the families from which they came.

Because this is what’s true: While names and faces may fade from explicit memory over time, their bodies and minds WILL retain and navigate from THIS FOUNDATION of kindness, safety, love, play, and freedom they experienced with THIS kindergarten class. That is SUCH a big deal.

I am just so grateful. And sad. For now …

LOVE.

#31weeks

I am so invested in this little girl’s life experience. Maybe too invested.

And, if I’m honest, It’s terrifying. It’s pressurizing. It’s anxiety-producing.

We spend so much time together, avoiding enmeshment and projection feels dang near impossible. I feel too important. I feel too responsible for who she is and what she wants and how she’s doing. She’s so front and center to my world, she eclipses any other reference point.

And this is not just my experience. I’ve heard similar from others. This is what moms are up against. Namely the stay-at-home moms who have done personal growth work and prioritize positive, gentle, present, conscious parenting. The ones that are hyper aware of how our every interaction and intention has the potential of a lifetime of impact.

It’s exhausting to know so much. To know better requires we do better … and, ya’ll, it’s a heavy, heavy thing to hold the responsibility of changing the [proverbial] family tree. Especially in the age of pandemics and lockdowns and ever-changing individual and systemic standards.

How do we do it? “It” being finding a healthy balance of informed intentionality and differentiation, validating attention and adequate personal space, educated awareness and blissful innocence … conscious discipline and giving ourselves a break … learning our child and caring for ourselves. It’s just hard. Not impossible, but friggin’ hard!

Add pregnancy hormones and medication-induced anxiety … and, welp, that’s where I am. Thankfully, it’s not where I’ll stay.

LOVE.

Currently reading: “The Other Wife” by Claire McGowan
Currently playing: “Something Was Wrong” podcast, Season 1

30 weeks and counting

In case you hadn’t heard, we’re having another baby.

Like, soon.

Wait, what?

“I thought you were only going to have one?” Yea, we were.

“I didn’t even know you were trying!” Well, we weren’t.

But, here we are … and soon SHE will be, too.

It’s been a crazy few months of wrapping our heads AND attempting to wrap our LIVES around the idea of being a family of four. It’s been a lot of adjusting, a short season of grieving, and a little bit of surreal “going through the motions” toward a new reality. With a positive on an OTC pregnancy test, our house got too small, some plans got pushed back a few years, and my career, motherhood and homeschool trajectory got SHOOK.

Unlike my last pregnancy, this one has gone fast (having a toddler to chase makes the time go by faster … or the days blend together, I don’t know). Also, unlike my last pregnancy, this one wreaked havoc on my body from the start. I was tired and dizzy and nauseous the entire first trimester. The second trimester brought heartburn and body discomfort my way early. And this third one? Well, between the heartburn, hormones, shortness of breath, swelling, total fatigue, and anxiety/intrusive thoughts, bleh.

Suffice it to say, I am NOT a fan of pregnancy.

BUT, I am a fan of my daughters. I can’t wait to see Amber as a big sister. I’m so looking forward to seeing how similar and different our youngest will be. I had brothers, so the sister bond is intriguing to me.

She’s got a name. We’ve hired a doula. I’ve scheduled around maternity leave. I’ve stocked up on things. I’ve made the baby registry. So, we’re rolling toward our new reality while she’s kicking me in the ribs.

My hope is to share more here going forward - it’s been a long time coming and as I let go my counseling business (I’ll still be doing life consultation), I anticipate there being more time and energy. So, fingers crossed for here and prayers welcomed for what’s to come!

gettin' down to The Git Up

I don’t know what it is about choreographed dance. Line dance. Group dance. Songs like this. I don’t know what it is, but I come ALIVE with this stuff. I feel actually good. Great. Hopeful. Like life is so, so good.

People enjoying themselves. Laughing at themselves. Enjoying one another. Moving their bodies. Smiling and feeling sure and silly and free …

And I feel almost ridiculous saying all that. But, if I’m being honest, it’s always been a true thing for me. Most of my best memories are on Cowboys’ dance floor. I kid you not. I imagine it must be what it’s like for musicians when they sit down with others for a jam session. It feels like human connection and like something bigger and better than ourselves.. It feels like possibility. Life hums. Vibrates.

For me, it’s something approaching a concept of Heaven I could actually look forward to …

So, I’m gonna grab my baby girl and we’re gonna dance in the living room to this on the daily for a while. We’ve already been at it. She lights up. Which makes my heart leap. Maybe she’s got some of her momma in her. And, if it’s this part, I’m gonna help her enjoy it as much and as long as is possible.

Love.

on hormones

So, that night your baby has to do an unplanned 12-hour EEG … and your period decides to return … and your milk dries up? That’s a night you survive. It’s two days later you fall apart.

Eck. Weaning and #momfear and menstruation are a HORRIBLE, TERRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD combo.

a typical morning

This is some more real life right here. She’s napping and I’m pumping. Double pumping. Hands-free (Yay?!) with the pumping bra. Look at those tummy rolls. No makeup. Bed hair. That’s right, I woke up like this. So, so sexy. I know you’re jealous.

4.5 months

Well, the butt is significantly better. Whoo-hoo. Though, in truth, it’s still pretty awful - the Miralax, the Fibercon, the pain relievers, the post-poop cream, the weekly pelvic floor therapy appointments. Again, I feel super, super sexy. Not.

But, the pain is in the 1-3 range, versus the 7-9 range like it was, so I get to be a present mom these days … and that’s so, so good. And what does that look like?

• Two-stepping to Jake Owen’s “Down to the Honkeytonk” around the living room couch in the mornings.

• Responding excitedly to her baby babble like I understand what she’s saying.

• Aerobic booty dancing to Major Lazer while she watches entranced from her back on the floor.

• Reading peek-a-boo books in the glider before bed.

• Going for walks around the neighborhood the second it cools off even a little bit.

• Singing Chris Stapleton’s “Millionaire” to her while she leans back on my knees.

• Handing her Lphant, reindeer rattle, paci, or spoon each and every time she drops them.

• Helping her push Grissom’s kisses away when they get too intense.

• Playing with her in the pool.

• Rubbing her back and humming “Rock-A-By-Baby” to her when she wakes up restless (but still sleepy) from a nap.

• Walking in to get her up at 7 am, my “Good Morning, Baby Girl” met with eye contact and bright smiles as she pushes up from her chest.

• Cleaning all her little parts while she kicks and splashes and coos in her baby bathtub.

• Hands-free pumping while I spin and shake and hum along with her toys for her as she lays on her back and watches and grabs and chatters on about something.

• Crying happy and grateful tears while I sing her Bruno Mars’ “Just the Way You Are” and Dierks Bentley’s “Living.”

I just love her. All of her. Her big blue eyes, her eager hands, her interest and alertness, her coos, her cries, her baby bird hair, the dimple on her cheek … even her smelly feet. She’s a blessing I didn’t even know why or how much I wanted or needed. I am grateful.

Love.

6 weeks old

It's starting to feel more real. Or maybe I am ... starting to feel more real, that is. It's like I've finally gotten a grasp on myself in this new reality. It's still a little disorienting, but I'm feeling more capable of navigating it without leaving myself behind.

We've gotten into a bit of a routine now. I know when she's hungry. I know when she's gassy. I know when she doesn't want her paci and when it's the only thing she's looking for. I've learned she really likes baths (love the warm water like her parents ...) and doesn't completely hate having her diaper changed (turns out, changing her BEFORE she's eaten is NOT the way to go). 

She's way more alert the past week or so - follows me with her eyes and seems to hold a gaze. Whatever that does for connection, it's something solid, because I definitely find myself more entranced and in love with her than I did prior. Her cries cause less distress in me than they did prior. I equate that to a sense of capability and adaptability I've discovered (or grown?). I'm less anxious about doing what it takes to take care of her (and, honestly, myself). That's a bit freeing.

Now my anxieties have more to do with getting a nanny and what my practice will look like financially as I head back to work next month. Time will tell ...

LOVE.

40 weeks

It’s my due date, and I already have an almost two week old baby girl.

I’m celebrating by changing a dozen diapers, offering up my boobs every couple of hours, trying half a dozen techniques to calm crying (with little, to no, success), and sitting and standing with an excessive amount of caution due to tears in the lady parts.

This ish is hard. Harder than I could have expected. Harder than I wanted. Harder than I would have signed up for. We’ve walked into a very harsh reality. One that is self-doubt inducing, emotionally overwhelming, relationally challenging, and worldview confounding.

In these first days as a family of three, I’ve marveled at her every feature, took thousands of pictures, cuddled her close and posted my pride on social media. But, in and out of those days, I’ve also had what one mom friend called “buyer’s remorse.” I’ve wondered out loud, “what have we done?,” and “what if I’m not wired for this ... what if I forced His hand and she’s going to pay the price for what I lack?” I’ve felt my blood pressure rise, my survival instinct flair up, at a hint of a whimper. I’ve worked hard at breathing deeply when she’s at my breast, hoping against hope that somehow I can spare her reading (and transferring) anxiety from her caregiver. I’ve struggled, tears streaming down my face, just wanting to hear my husband say all these feelings are normal and that I am a good mother, that, somehow, he’s seen me show up and impress him with my maternal instincts. And I’ve cried more, alone on the corner of the couch, when he’s remained silent. 

This is hard. She’s beautiful and precious. And I can’t help feeling like she deserves better than I’m giving her. And that’s all I’ve got right now.

Love. 

37 weeks

Well, nothing about this is enjoyable.  

I feel disgusting. My thighs are - not kidding - double their normal size. I’ve got a double chin developing. I’ve gained 50 pounds. 5-0. These boobs I paid for? No longer sexy. My ankles and feet and hands are swollen. The extra weight has turned into plantar fasciitis pain in BOTH feet. The belly (and she who dwells/moves within) has turned into very regular and painfully acute back pain - especially while sitting or laying down. The influx of hormones equates to sweat-soaked tossing and turning throughout the night, EVERY night. There’s the bruised ribs, from her stretching ... and the pain in my pelvic area EVERY time I stand up. And the itchy, stretching skin? Yea, that just started. And sometimes when I walk? Feels like I just tore my hip out of joint. 

I can’t paint my toenails. Or bend down. Or help do ANYTHING. 

In my discomfort, I’m grouchy and on edge. I legitimately have a new-found compassion and understanding for chronic pain patients. I will never judge your opioid addiction or grouchiness again. Not being able to be and or do what is desired, when it’s desired and how it’s desired is its own kind of hell.

Hell. 

Now, I know I’m supposed to preface or back-end this complaint with commentary on how it will all be worth it - that the temporary struggle pales in comparison to the joy having a child will bring - but I don’t do platitudes. I also don’t speak from inexperience.

So, all I can say is that I hope I like her. I truly hope I have some astonishing measure of magical connection/attachment to this being I helped create. Right now, I’m just marveling (with slight disgust and an ounce of disdain) at my audacity in thinking I had any right or wisdom enough to embark on plotting for parenthood. Foolish human.

I hope she comes soon. I hope she doesn’t. I’m scared of when she does. I’m eager to find out how it plays out. I want a known in all this unknown. I don’t want things to change. I don’t want to be pregnant anymore. I’m worried about what life looks like when we’re permanently three instead of two. I’m a bigger dichotomy then I’ve ever been and it’s driving me a little bit crazy. The hormones are not helping. 

Relaxin sucks. Ironically. 

And that’s all I’ve got for this Mother’s Day morning. Thanks for letting me be real. 

Love. 

23 weeks

Being pregnant is so weird.

It's exciting. It's humbling. It's terrifying. It's perfectly surreal.

As my belly has grown (and with it, aches and attention), I keep being struck with the thought: Is this real life?

And that thought is not at all unfamiliar. I distinctly remember living with that emotional distance and suspended belief when I got married. Before that, it showed up when he put a ring on my finger. Before that, in the dating.

These romantic ideals and joyful milestones in life ... I can't quite shake the thought that I never fully believed they were for me. I mean, for me, TOO. I think I may have thought I was an exception. And I don't know where that evolved from, but my current (and past) bewilderment seems to indicate there has to have been a genesis, right?

Regardless, the fact that there's a living, moving being in my abdominal region right now? The idea that I might actually be a real mom, tasked with the gift of loving and raising a human in just a few short months? It's all just SO weird. That this is happening.

But I'm grateful, even if not fully conscious to it all yet.

i was pregnant

It's a surreal statement.

I was growing a human. Me. I still don't quite grasp it. Despite the positive pregnancy tests. Despite the morning sickness. Despite the unusual cravings. Despite the ultrasound that proved it and ended it. Despite having the surgery that removed it. Still doesn't feel quite real.

But, I was pregnant. For two months, I was a mom ... body and mind. My boobs hurt and my free time was spent considering the merits of various strollers. And then, well, I just wasn't. Pregnant, that is. And the hormones tapered off. My boobs felt normal. And I cleared the cache on my computer so I'd stop seeing baby gear ads.

This is the reality of a miscarriage. Intense feeling and a hesitancy to let the feeling flow.