The Pain That Connects Us

Warning: This is raw and unedited, and not super thought out either. But when I don't know what to do with my feelings, I write. This is what came out.

I began writing a post after the Sandy Hook shooting, but I never finished it. I never found words that seemed to adequately capture my feelings and thoughts. So, with tomorrow being the one year anniversary of the shooting, I sat down to write again, one year later. And just as I picked up my pen, a notification flashed across my phone screen, "School shooting in Colorado. 2 injured. Shooter is active." My heart felt as though it literally had sunk to my feet. My chest tightened, squeezing the tears up and out of my eyes. "NOOOOO. Not another one," I cried, as I'm sure so many did when they heard the news. I had to just sit in it for a minute and feel the pain. Not because I like to feel pain but because I need to feel pain.

You see, I don't know or pretend to know what it's like to receive a text from my son that says there is a shooter in his school and he is safe, for now. I don't know what it is like to be emotionally strangled by hearing the news that my son was one of the ones that didn't make it out alive. I don't know what it is like to be a teacher, who risks her own life to protect the lives of her students. I don't know what it's like to be a student who witnesses the shooting of her classmates while trembling in fear beneath her desk. I don't know what it is like to be a first responder who has to carry a child's limp body to an ambulance. I don't know what it's like to be a doctor who did her best to mitigate the gun shot wounds of a 5 year old, but was minutes too late. I don't know their pain first-hand and I have not been in their shoes. I don't know their trauma. But I know my own pain. I know my own trauma. I think about these people, real life people, real life trauma, and the horrific things that they've experienced and the tears pump out even faster and harder. I don't do this to re-traumatize myself, I do it to re-connect to my pain so that I can connect with theirs. Because I think the place of pain is a place shared by the whole of humanity, a point of connection in a world of differences.

There's a reason that even those removed from the situation hear this news and we feel things, real raw things like rage, sadness, fear, and despair. We may not know anyone anywhere near this shooting and yet if we pause and take it in, we feel things. Because it touches a place in us that we all have, a place that holds pain and grief. We've all experienced loss in some way in our lives. Whether it's the loss of a person, or a job, or a dream, or the loss of innocence or safety, loss is loss, and we all know it to some extent. And loss is a strange beast, we all experience it differently and we all navigate it in our own unique way. And loss comes in waves, much like the tide, in and out. At bay one minute, crashing down on us the next. Yet there are no tide charts for grief, we don't know when it's coming or going, it just comes. And I think the tragedies like the one at Arapahoe HS today, the ones that we've become far too familiar with, touch a place of loss in us, as if removing the wall of a dam, allowing the waters of grief to once again barrel towards us, overwhelming our souls. And some respond to it by crying, others feel a deep sense of despair and hopelessness, some turn to prayer, grunting out the rawest of emotions, some feel anger and want desperately to place the blame somewhere, anywhere. Some take action, in any way they can, in direct defiance of the feelings of powerlessness that grief can so quickly effect.

We all do grief differently. And sometimes we wonder, "why is that person so upset by this? He didn't even know anyone at that school." Because that's not what the pain is about. Because when we see tragedy, be it near or far, personal or not, it touches a place in us, and has an uncanny ability to connect us to our own pain, our own loss. And one might at first think, "well that sucks. I don't want to feel pain. I'm going to do everything possible to avoid THAT." But what if we let it connect us to our own pain? And what if we let that pain connect us to each other? What if as we passed people in the grocery store, on the street, at our workplace, in our home, what if we recognized them, no matter how glammed up their Facebook timeline might be, as people what have known loss, and pain, and brokenness? How might that change how we see each other? Maybe it would simply allow us TO see each other. To really see each other. Maybe it would soften us and our responses to one another. Maybe if we allowed ourselves to see and feel a connection with people at the point of pain, we could then hold space for each other, safe space to let pain out instead of burying it deep within. What if we met pain with love, not answers, not judgment, not ignorance, just loving space to hold the pain.

This may sound like shrink talk to you. I admit, it does sound a little warm and fuzzy. Except that I've seen it work. powerfully. I've seen people hold space for each other and for me, allowing the raw discomfort of pain to emerge, only to be met with love, and thus transformed into hope and healing. I've known it first-hand. I've known how tremendously powerful it can be to have someone see through my anger or cynicism or sharp words, only to recognize the pain in me, coming out sideways. And to have that met with love and space in which I could freely kick at the walls of my pain until it bled light, wow, that has been powerful. Because of those people I have known healing. I ultimately credit the healing to my Maker, but I believe that those people were in my life for a reason and acted as vessels of healing, and for that I am so grateful.

So, I am not saying, that in response to this or any other tragedy that we shouldn't DO things, like work to pass laws, or increase funding for mental health, or improve safety protocols. I guess I'm just saying that I think we have more power to affect change than we realize. The opportunity is right there in front of us, in every interaction we have. You might be angry at me for saying this, and that's ok, but I really don't think that stricter gun laws or greater access to mental health or arming our teachers with guns is going to cut it. It may help or may not help things or prevent some tragedies. But when people are broken and in pain, the pain is going to come out somehow, some way. So what if we started by looking around us, pausing to see, really notice and see the people right in front of us? And what if we connected at the point of brokenness and pain, armed with time, space and a love that wins? This is just as much a challenge to me as to anyone, but what if???

3 years of Lessons, Love, and Laughter - A Tribute to My Son

Sometimes with writing, I don't know where to begin, so I never do. But today is my oldest son's third birthday and I couldn't let the day pass without sitting down and writing some of the things that have been stirring around in me for a while. It's a tribute to him and all that he has taught me over the last 3 years, not all of it easy to learn or think about, but needed. So, B, this one's for you, for you to read someday, many years down the road. It might not be perfect or make complete sense, just like your mama, but it is heartfelt.

My Dear B,
When I was preparing for motherhood a little over 3 years ago, I pondered the many things I wanted to and hoped to teach you someday. I honestly didn't give much thought to what you would teach me, let alone how much you would teach me. But wow, have you ever taught me a lot!

You have reminded me of what it means to be brave, to try new things. I am struck by your courage as I watch you jump into a large pool, water covering every inch of your little body, and then you pop up out of the water with a smile as big and bright as the sun on your face. You have reminded me that often the things that seem the most scary at first are the most exhilarating. I love, love, love your sense of adventure.

You have also reminded me of what it looks like to empathize with and care deeply for other people. I witness this nearly every day as I see you do things like cry when your brother gets his shots or ask me every day for a week if my eye (that I scratched) still hurts and if it feels better yet. I recall the first time that it hit me how deeply you feel. When you were just two we took you out on a boat and you bawled your eyes out every time you saw me or your Daddy fall down on the wakeboard (which I'm sad to say was quite often). We were ok, but you didn't know that and you thought we were hurt. And you hurt because you thought we were hurt. Some people might mistakenly see you as a crybaby, but I see you as one who empathizes deeply with others, especially in their pain, and it quite frankly is one of the most beautiful characteristics I've ever witnessed in anyone. And you are only 3. B, I hope you never stop feeling deeply, rejoicing with those who rejoice, and hurting with those who hurt. It takes courage to keep doing this, which is why I'm glad you are brave too. Because to feel deeply for others means you will hurt deeply for others. And hurting, as you know, is no fun. And sometimes when people feel hurt over and over again, they want to shut it down, so they won't have to feel the pain anymore. But I hope and pray that God gives you the strength and courage to keep you compassionate and vulnerable in the best of ways.

B, you have also shown me what it's like not to hide, because you don't even know how to hide yet. Somewhere along the road from childhood to adulthood, we learn to hide all that we don't want others to see, our weaknesses, our insecurities, our wrong-doings. We hide out of fear, fears of all kinds. But you, B, you haven't learned how to hide yet. I absolutely love playing hide-n-seek with you because I tell you to go hide and I count to 10 and before I can even open my eyes, you come bursting out of your "hiding spot" exclaiming, "here I am!!" Yes, there you are, my bright, beautiful, authentic, and unafraid boy. There you are. While at some point you may learn what it means to and how to hide, I hope you never do. You are too beautiful to be hidden.

B, you have definitely taught me more about sea animals and construction vehicles than I ever expected, or in full disclosure, desired to know, your thirst for knowledge knocks my socks off. It keeps me humble too. There's nothing better for the ego than having a 2 year old correct you and instruct you on the difference between a stingray and a manta-ray. Mind you, I will never confuse the two again. Yes, you are a little smarty-pants, but more important than smarts is your tenacity to keep trying and the problem-solving skills you use when you do persevere. My whole insides leap with pride and excitement when I see you place a puzzle piece in the wrong spot, and frustration creeps up, then you it again in a different space and realize that it fits. The way you marvel at yourself every.single.time and proclaim, with hands raised in the air, "I did it! TA-NA!!!" (your version of ta-da). Yes, you did. You did it because you kept trying and you didn't give up. And while there are situations in life in which giving up might be the right choice, I can tell you that many of the best things in life are not "gotten" on the first try. So, always give it one more try, and you just might get  it. Thank you for the reminder, buddy.

B, I could go on and on about the things you've taught me these last 3 years, but I want you to actually read this someday and I need to save things for other birthdays. SO, the last thing I want to thank you for teaching me on this, your third birthday of yours, is perhaps the one I'm most thankful for and it also brings the most tears to my eyes. In many of these other areas, your lessons to me have been reminders of things I maybe already knew but had lost sight of a bit over the years. But this lesson is one that you have taught me for the first time. It's a journey kind of lesson, but you have sent me on my way. It is the lesson of letting go. And that is perhaps one of the scariest things I've ever written down and while I want to keep learning it, I hope to God with all of my being that it is never fully tested. But here goes. I used to be somewhat fearless, and not always in a good way. Like, Nana and Papa had a celebration the first year that I made it an entire year without going to the ER. I was 23. I love that you are brave, B, but I'm counting on the fact that you are smart too so as to not land yourself in the ER as often as I did. Ah yes, the letting go. I once was fearless, and then I experienced some pain and losses and the fear began to creep in. And then into my life walked someone really amazing, aka your Dad, and I realized I now had something really big to lose, and the fear in me grew stronger. And then I got pregnant with you, after a long time trying. More to lose, more to fear. When they told me that you weren't getting fed in the womb and that you needed to come out a week early or else you might die, the fear soared (though it's still debatable whether that fear was actually medically warranted, but that's another story). Then you were born and it was like, holy frijoles, it's my job to keep you alive (or so I often let myself believe). More fear.

And then there were all of your skin reactions, the allergy diagnoses, the epi-pens, and that day last fall, when you were just 27 months old and your airways almost completely closed and they told us that we got you to the hospital just in time. I've never been so afraid in my life. But that's when it finally happened. All that built-up fear needed a place to go and it just kind of erupted. And that's when I realized, like deep in my heart realized, that I'm not in control, despite my best efforts to convince myself that I am. And I realized that  you are a gift from God; That God loves you even more, way more, than I do, which I can't honestly wrap my brain around; that you are God's, and it's my job to do my best to take care of you, and I can assure you, I will do my darndest. But that ultimately, it is God who keeps your heart beating, and your airways open, and wakes you up each morning with all that energy that I can't always handle at 7am but am sure glad you have. Yes, you have taught me, or shall I say, have begun to teach me what it means to relinquish my illusion of control, and trading it in for trust in God and his deep love for you. Big, huge knot in my stomach right now as I write this, but one that leads me to pray the prayer that I have prayed over you and your brother every day since you were born (it was spoken to the tribe of Benjamin but we include your bro in the prayer because we totally failed him in the name department. Not only did we not give him a biblical name, but more importantly, we gave him a name that means dark and hairy and well, with his white like the sun hair, yeah, big-time name fail. But don't tell him that just yet, k? I'll confess to him in one of his bday tributes down the road). The prayer I pray over you every night, "Let the beloved of the Lord rest secure in Him, for he shields him all day long. The one the Lord loves rests between his shoulders." - Deuteronomy 33:12. I think about this and I am reminded of both my desire to protect you from everything awful and bad in this world. But I'm also reminded of the reality that I won't be able to. And that is a very painful reality for me to swallow. See, just because God loves you, B, doesn't mean that nothing bad will ever happen in your life. God doesn't promise us a happy, perfect, pain-free life. But he does promise to walk us through whatever comes our way. And I've had just enough hurt and loss to believe that promise. And I hope you believe it too. Thank you, B, for teaching me how to let go and to live into faith and trust on a daily basis. I hope that no matter how big and dark the storms in your life grow, that you are reminded that the sun always still shines somewhere above the clouds and I hope that you keep tracing rainbows in the rain. I hope we both do, whatever comes our way.

I love you, my strong, beautiful B. Happy, joyful, 3rd birthday. Love, with all of my heart, Mom

Why Tragedy Unites

Tragedies like the one in Boston are wild, unbelievable, strange occurrences. Yet they have a unique way of bringing people together. We feel connected to the tragedy in various ways, strangely wanting to be close enough to feel like we are a part of something. But fearfully wanting to be just far enough away that the tragedy doesn’t actually touch us directly. But what is it about tragedy that draws us in? I admit, as a runner, as a mom, as a human being, I was drawn in earlier this week. Though I felt rage and sadnes at what I saw, I could not stop looking. When I first got word of the bombings, I immediately wanted to feel connected, first to my family, then to my friends, then via social media, to the world. Why? I believe, at our core, we all want to feel connected, we want to feel like we are a part of something bigger than ourselves. And tragedies bring us together. But why? Maybe we somehow feel unified in our disbelief, our sadness, our anger, our fear, and those feelings have one thing in common: vulnerability.

So tragedy has a way of bringing us together because when tragedy strikes, we feel raw and vulnerable, so vulnerable that we are stripped away of the pride and prejudices that keep us apart on any other day. We are connected at the core of our humanity. On Monday, when brave men and women ran straight into the bomb area to help those wounded, do you think anyone said, “wait, are you a Tea Party member? Because if you are, I can’t give you my shirt to stop the blood gushing from your leg because I can’t stand the Tea Party.” Or, do you think that those heroic runners who finished the race and kept running on to the hospital to donate blood stopped to ask, “Um, is this blood going to be given to a liberal? Because I refuse to give my precious blood to a filthy liberal.” NO, I guarantee you that people did not pause to give thought to the race, religion, or political party of the person they were helping. They saw hurting, vulnerable people, and in their own raw vulnerability, they ran head-on into the darkness with light and love. Tragedy has a way of stripping us down to our most vulnerable selves. And when it does so, we come to find that we have a lot more in common with each other than perhaps we once thought.

On this 14th anniversary of the Columbine shootings, I am reminded that I was not in the school when the massacre happened. Yet I found myself living smack dab in the middle of that community working with Columbine students and their families a year later. I was not in NY for 911, nor do I personally know anyone who died in that tragedy, though some of my family lives in Manhattan. I was not in the Aurora theater when someone opened fire on the innocent victims inside, but I do live in Colorado. I do not know anyone who was directly affected by the Sandy Hook shootings, but I have a son who I am preparing my  worried little heart to send off to pre-school next year. When most tragedies happen we can find ways in which we are somehow connected to them, maybe more accurately to the pain and fear that those tragedies render.  I believe deep down, we want to feel. We want to be vulnerable. We want to feel anything other than alone. We want to feel connected. We want to feel understood. We want to feel loved. But vulnerability isn’t usually very comfortable. And daily life often doesn’t force us to be vulnerable.  We can live at the surface far too easily.

But tragedy has a way of shaping us forever. As does the way we respond to it. We proclaim such statements as ‘love wins’ or ‘we’re stronger together,’ and they are true, yet it is that person who has run into the darkness and come out the other side into the light for whom those statements hold weight and take on deeper meaning. It is that person who has allowed themselves to be stripped down to their most vulnerable state, exposed, and in that place has both offered and received love and help. It is that person who knows both the depths of tragedy AND the depths of love and beauty.

Like I said, I haven’t personally been directly affected by any of the horrific tragedies we’ve seen in the last couple of decades. But when I think about the ways pain and tragedy have directly touched my life, I wouldn’t wish those things to happen on anyone. Yet, I can honestly say that going through those things has made me both stronger and softer, and they have caused me to love deeper. Or at least to try. I still struggle or perhaps I should say, resist vulnerability. It is so much easier to keep my walls up, my pride and prejudices as my shields. Because in doing so, I live under the illusion of control, the idea that I can keep pain at bay, prevent myself from feeling any kind of hurt. But what I have come to learn, stubbornly as I may, is that it is through the deepest hurt and pain that we find the deepest love, connection, and strength. 

Another Sunrise

I had a blog post whirling around in my head after the Aurora shootings. I actually wrote out a post on a Starbucks napkin after Sandy Hook. For some reason or for many reasons, I never actually posted them up on my blog. But today, the day after the bombing at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, I had to write. First I had to run. I woke up to about 8 inches of fresh snow and 24 degree temps. On any other day at this stage of the game, that probably would have been enough to keep me inside. But I knew that I needed to run on this snowy morning. I needed love to win out in my heart over fear and anger. And the two spaces in which that most consistently happens are running and writing. Running seemed like the most fitting option for today.

Darkness still filled the sky when my alarm went off this morning. I stalled and snoozed, a little more so than usual. I finally talked myself into getting out of bed, throwing my running clothes on and strapping on my shoes, Yak Trax already attached. The air cold, my muscles still stiff from yesterday, I ran into the darkness.

Because, as Bruce Cockburn so aptly puts it, sometimes you “got to kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight.” So I kicked and I ran, and the light came as it always does each morning. It wasn’t even a full-on sunrise, not even close, more like a heavy, foggy, grey light, but it was light and light is the only thing that pushes out the darkness.

And so on my run, I was reminded of how we, or at least I fear the darkness, the ugliness, the messiness of this life and world in which we live. And often times all I want to do is run away from the darkness. But sometimes you can’t outrun the darkness. Just as if you were to run West in attempt to out-run the sunset, the darkness would still catch you, the sun would still set and darkness would eventually fall around you. But what if we were brave enough to turn around and run straight into the darkness with the light of love, like the many courageous individuals who turned around and ran back into the bomb site to help people yesterday? What if we were brave enough to face the darkness, to wrestle with it, and kick at it, knowing we would come out the other side into the light of the sunrise? Because no matter how dark, the sun does always rise. And being a believer in God, I hold fast to the belief that his mercies are indeed new every morning.

What does it look like to run into the darkness? Sometimes when I run in the dark, my headlamp seems like such a small light in the midst of such vast darkness. But it is light nonetheless. It lights my path and it is light enough for people around me to see it and hopefully not run me over. I believe that light comes in the form of love. I believe that a major way God expresses love is through people loving each other. I believe that no act of love is too small, for it still casts light in a dark world. And collectively, all those little acts of love make for some big, bright light. And that light chases the darkness away. Love wins. But love is messy sometimes. It might include acts of kindness, but I believe it goes beyond that, deeper than that. Love sometimes looks like stepping into someone’s messy life and just being there, shining light and hope. Love sometimes means saying the hard things and sometimes it's receiving the hard things said to you. Love sometimes means needing to let go of pride, anger, control, judgment. Love sometimes means admitting you’re wrong even when you want so badly to be right. Love sometimes means forgiving when everything in you wants to hold on to the hurt with an iron fist. Sometimes love means speaking and sometimes love means not saying anything at all, no matter how much you want to defend or defame. Love often means sacrifice, of one’s time, of one’s energy, of one’s needs, and perhaps even of one’s own safety as many brave ones demonstrated for us yesterday. Because life is messy, love has to be patient. It has to be. This is hard for me. Really, all of it is hard for me, really hard, all of the time.

But I don’t want to run from the darkness anymore. Because, like the sunset, it always catches up with me anyway. I want to run with the light of love head-on into the darkness and love hard with those around me until nothing but light remains. Who’s with me?

Rocky Mountain Heartbreak

When we put our townhome on the market, I can't tell you how many people said to me, "selling your home is the hard part. Once you do that, the fun begins!" As in, house hunting is fun. Maybe it is if you're on the show House Hunters, which by the way if anyone knows how to get on the show, we're all ears! But if not, I beg to differ, at least in the Denver market. For us, house hunting thus far has been little more than stressful and heartbreaking.To be honest, it reminds me a lot of dating in high school.

In our search for 'the one', we initially found several prospects. They possessed some of our desired characteristics, but were lacking quite a few others.  I tried to convince myself that they might be a good fit, trying really hard to envision our life together.  But let's face it, when you have to convince yourself that the love is there, it's probably not. Then there were a couple of homes, one in particular, that had a major "wow factor." You see, I am easily wooed by a nice kitchen. I get all lost in the granite and the stainless steel appliances, and the gas stove and ahhhh, I become completely blind, donning my beer granite goggles, blind to the many major flaws, like the cracks in the foundation, the shifting basement wall, the high potential for water damage...oh but the kitchen is sooooooo amazing. People tried to warn me that this was not the one, that it just wasn't a good overall fit for me, but I could only see what I wanted to see and that was the double pantry with the slide out drawers and the 6 burner gas stove and the double oven. But deep down inside I knew it. I knew that when my infatuation with the fancy kitchen wore off, reality would set in and I would be left with a home with major foundational flaws and the relationship, I mean the house would eventually crumble to the ground. So, as heartbreaking as it was, we ended the relationship with that sweet house on Arbutus St., trusting that there would be a better fit out there somewhere. It was hard to say goodbye. I was sad, it was a loss, and I needed to grieve. I also needed some chocolate.

Then there was the one that got away. Actually, there were two of those. The first was a beauty, I'm talking serious eye-candy as far as homes go! But it was more than just eye-candy, it had personality too. It was everything we were looking for and more, or so we thought. This one felt a little out of our league, but we took a risk and went for it anyway. Apparently though, some other prospect swooped in before us and caught the seller's eye, offering up a little more than we were willing to give. And so went our, "as close to the whole package as we've seen so far" property. Heartbroken again. This one called for more drastic measures, so I got myself a spoon and drowned my sorrows in a pint of Bluebell ice cream.

We really didn't believe that we would ever find another one as amazing as the one that got away. We just couldn't imagine anything better and that was discouraging. But people say that the third time's a charm, right? So, we held out hope and after a little mourning and eating of the Bluebell, we got back out there again. Not much time had passed when along came another prospect. This one didn't have the wow factor that the previous ones had. But we were kind of over that anyway, tired of getting all excited and wooed, only to be let down and dumped on our... Anyway, along came this new one, a little bit aged but young at heart and offering the promise of steadiness (and great views) that we longed for. This one came with all of the non-negotiables. It was solid, strong and had a lot of heart. We were in love. It was for real this time. This was not the infatuation of the past, but a real, legitimate, deep love. This WAS THE ONE, we were sure of it. So sure we were that I was already making plans for how we would spend the holidays decorate the living room. But apparently, God had other plans for us and we would not in fact be building a life together. Because when we finally got up the nerve to make a move, we discovered that someone else had already made their move...again. This one hurt...bad. I was devastated. I cried and I cried hard. Then I was angry. And then I was just sad again. I just wanted to crawl in a hole and not talk to anyone. And I was tired of this rollercoaster. How could this happen? This was the one, we were SOOOO sure of it! But it was not meant to be. And as with any heartbreak, there were lessons to be learned.

Right after the heartbreak, I didn't want to think about what lessons I was supposed to be learning from the whole ordeal. Maybe I didn't want to see them. I just didn't want to believe it was really over. But time does do wonders for a broken heart and after a few weeks and some more ice cream...and chocolate...and wine, I am finally ready to let go of that one. And I'm ready to acknowledged what I have learned. For starters, I was reminded to stay focused on the important things. I have to be honest, it took me a little while to see this last one for all that it was. I wish I had realized what a gem it was a bit sooner. Next time I will see it sooner and I won't be so hung up on superficial things. I also learned that if we see something we like, we need to move fast and I mean lightning fast. There just aren't a whole lot of quality prospects out there, so when we get that "this is the one" feeling, we need to go for it that day (in case you forgot, we're talking about houses here. I do not necessarily endorse jumping into the deepend right away when it comes to dating!). And in the big picture, I think there are two big lessons to be learned. The first is simply the reminder to focus on all that I have rather than on what I don't have, to be grateful and count my many many blessings. And the second big take-away, is the lesson that the right one is worth waiting for. Umm, I'm pretty sure I learned that one already in a big way nearly 5 years ago! But I guess someone wants me to learn it again. So here we are again, attempting to wait in hope AND live in gratitude at the same time. Somedays are harder than others. Somedays I still have to remind myself that it's really over with that last one and that I need to let go and look forward...forward with hope and gratitude and a bucketload of patience, trusting that the right one is somewhere out there waiting for us!

Release

Wow. So, this is what typing a blog post feels like. I forgot. A number of people have been asking me questions lately that go something like this, "Where have you been?" or "Are you ok? I haven't heard from you in a while" or "Did you stop blogging?" Well, I didn't stop blogging, at least not in my head. It's just that what was in my head never made it to the blog! And while I wish I could say that during the time that I haven't been posting anything on the blog, I was off on some crazy advenure or embarking on a new exciting project, but truth be told, I've been doing neither of those things. Or wait, maybe I have, if you are so inclined to think of changing a LOT of poopy diapers as an adventure, which believe me, it can be. Or if you think of trying to show and sell a home with two kids under two living there as an exciting project, then yes, that is exactly what I've been up to. I've wanted to blog so many times throughout the last 7 months (yep, it's been that long) and have had so many different thoughts whirling around in that head of mine, but I've had neither the mental nor physical energy to work them our on paper (bc yes, it's true, I still handwrite everything first that I eventually type!) And even if I did happen to have a burst of mental energy, it was often impeded by the mounds of pressure I heaped onto myself to transform whatever those thoughts were into coherent and profound sentences. And well, that's just not happening.

So, why today to start blogging again? Well, for starters, I have released myself from having to say anything coherent, let alone profound. I hope you will release me too. (Read: this might be somewhat meandering and perfectly raw and unprofound). More than in any other season of my life, as a mom I have come to recognize the importance of "releasing myself" from the highly unrealistic pressures and expectations I place on myself. I now call it the "bringing myself back down to earth" talk that I have been having with myself lately. It goes something like this, "No, Melissa, you cannot wash the dishes, stuff the diapers, make yourself lunch, clean up your lunch, check your email, spend some time writing, check your email, prep dinner, pay the bills, call 2 clients back, call your sister, find a condo to rent in Winter Park, upload the trip photos, and take a catnap during the 1.5 hours (at best) that you may have if (big if) both boys are miraculously asleep at the same time. You just can't!" I argue with myself, "But I need to get those things done. The kids need clean diapers, dinner needs to be made, the bills need to be paid, I need to call the clients back..." And the voice of reason stops me in my tracks, "You can't do it all, Melissa. It doesn't mean that you're a failure. That doesn't need to be cause for feeling overwhelmed. Think of it as your personalized invitation to prioritize. What is most important today, Melissa? Choose 3 things." I fight it with a toddler-esque whine (all in my head, of course), "But I..." "3 things, Melissa. Period. 3 things. Choose wisely." "Ok," I say to myself with a sigh, donning somewhat of a forlorn look on my face, "3 things." 

And so I go about choosing the 3 things that I'm going to do during whatever unpredictable amount of time I may have. And to be honest, I don't always choose the most healthy 3 things. I often either choose those seemingly urgent tasks clamoring for my attention the most loudly or those totally mindless time-drainers aka facebook. But today, I chose wisely. I chose to make lunch for myself AND to actuallly sit down and eat said lunch, to clean up from lunch, and to read and write a little. And literally, as I wrote that sentence, I heard the crackle of the monitor quickly followed by the dreaded cry signalling my time has come to an end. I didn't even finish the 3 things I set out to do. Imagine how defeated I would have felt had I had intentions to do all of those things I mentioned earlier in the post. 

But that is my current reality as a wife and mom of 2 boys who are only 16.5 months apart, mostly staying at home but also working two very part-time jobs. Everyone has their own reality, and no one reality or set of circumstances is in and of itself better than another, it's the attitude with which you see your reality and the way you respond to your circumstances that is perhaps more important. And I'll be the first to admit (my husband will most likely be the second) that I don't always respond in ways that I am proud of or would like other people to see. But the truth is, I wouldn't change my life right now. Ok, so maybe I secretly (or not so secretly) wish for a reality in which I got more than 4 consecutive hours of sleep at a time. But other than that...

You see, part of my journey as a mom so far as been about learning to accept my limitations. There is a lot of talk out there that says, "Reach for the stars! You can do anything you set your mind to!" And some days, that kind of talk is good for me to hear, motivating me to dream big. But other days, I feel like saying, "I'll show you where you can put your stars..." (exhibit #1 of not always responding so beautifully.) As much as we need that kind of hopeful, motivational, positive, "you can do it" talk in our lives, I believe we also need to be talking about how to gracefully accept our limitations, the things we simply cannot do. There are times when life calls us to reach hard after our goals and I believe there are times when what we really need is to reset our expectations and perhaps establish new goals, more realistic goals. Because let's face it, some days I have about as much of a chance of playing Center for U.S. women's basketball team as I do crossing off everything on my to-do list. No amount of 'setting my mind to it' is going to make it happen! Don't get me wrong, I'm a goal-oriented person and I like to, I mean really like to achieve things that I didn't initially think were possible. And I very much want to encourage my boys to dream big and to dream boldly AND I want them to develop realistic expectations, as in I really hope Ben (who is in the not-quite-0percentile) doesn't spend a whole lot of his time dreaming about being a linebacker. Because apart from a supernatural growth spurt, that's just not gonna happen for him. 

So, I guess all of this is to say that I'm finding that I need to make sure my goals are realistic and more importantly, that they align with my priorities and values. If not, then maybe just maybe I need to stop all of my frenzied movement in the wrong direction, release myself, and set some new goals, goals that are challenging AND attainable AND fulfilling. Therefore, today, I released myself from doing the laundry and calling people back and instead I ate, I wrote, and I conquered took the boys to the pool!

Ahhh, that felt good to write! And it only took a total of 4 days to get from my brain to the blog!

Wanted: A Brave Heart

Not long after I discovered that I was pregnant with my first son, I went out and bought one of those Pregnancy books/journals that provides a 'comprehensive' list of the gazillion items you 'need' to have before your little bundle arrives. But amongst all of the other baby items that start with the letter B, like Boppy, Bassinet, Bumbo, Bottle, etc...I'm pretty sure they forgot to include one very important 'B' item that is absolutely necessary for motherhood, a Brave heart.  Being a mom requires bravery. I sometimes have it, and often times I don't. This fact was flushed out recently during our "New Years Eve Adventure." I call it an adventure because it was neither planned nor predicted and through it, a new reality unfolded for me in a smack-you-in-the-face kind of way.

On the last day of the year, it really hit me that my kids are a gift. Yeah, yeah, I know every parent says that. But what I mean is that they are a gift in the sense that they are not mine, they have been gifted to me, on loan to me for an uncertain amount of time. They are not my possessions in the same way that my favorite shirt is my possession. I knew when and where I would buy my shirt. And now I decide when I'll wear it and with what I'll wear it. And I decide what that shirt will do each day, usually one of 3 options: hang in my closet, adorn my body, or hang out in the wash. Or the occasional fourth option, chill on my floor. And I choose when I will stop wearing the shirt and pass it on to its next home, aka Goodwill, where someone else will make it their own. A shirt can be considered "mine," but my kids, no, they are not mine. I did not choose when they would come into my life (although I of course had something to do with it). Had I had total control over that, the first would have come sooner, and the second, perhaps not so soon. And ultimately, I don't have control over what my kids do on a daily basis despite my deepest desires for said control. Of course I set parameters, model behaviors, and discipline for "bad choices," but if I could really control exactly what my children do, this:

aka our New Years Eve Adventure, would not have happened. And I certainly cannot control when my children will no longer be on this earth. This point, if I stop to dwell on it for any length of time, reduces me to tears and leaves me with a deeper ache than I know what to do with. No, my children are not mine to control. I can love them. I can guide them. I can teach them. I can discipline them. I can try to protect them. I can empower them. But they will make their own choices. They will fall. They will get up. They will be hurt and they will hurt. They will laugh and they will cry. They will try. They will fail. They will succeed. They will love. They will lose. They will celebrate and they will grieve. More than anything I want for them to love and love deeply with their hearts wide open, but this is a strong and courageous act. And that's not something that I can force them to do, only something that I can model for them. But that is of course, easier said than done. When the cruelties of this world aim their assaults in the direction of my kids, more than a brave face is needed, a brave heart is required.