At the gym yesterday, I watched one of my regular classmates walk in dressed in a cute outfit and start her stretching. Before I knew it, I was caught up in a moment of envy. I wanted to wear the same sort of clothing without inhibition. I longed to wear cute work out shorts with fit legs and wondered what she felt like while shopping for her outfit. Did she feel more safe and whole and did the lights shine more warmly around her? When she pictured herself wearing her new clothes was she excited instead of apprehensive? Or did she not give it a second thought?

Each day during class at the gym, with mirrors glaring at me, I push myself for my own good. It is what I need physically, and emotionally. It is my instant good mood and my happy place. I do it for my heart, for my children, and for the athlete living inside me. I know others may look at me and be grateful they do not have as far to go as I do and I know some are even terrified to look like me. But that's okay. Because I know what it feels like to hate the body you were given; to curse it and scream at it and wish it away. I also know that kind of hatred doesn't always come with fat. It comes in a size 22 or a 10 or a 2 or a 4.

Luckily, during those blissful moments when the rhythm of my heartbeat and the music's rhythm align, clarity fills me and I remember that though I have often wished to be free from certain predispositions, I wouldn't trade what I have learned for a slimmer me. I wouldn't give up the insight and acceptance and growth. The feeling of each triumph is just too good to relinquish. So, each day as I move my limbs in my economy priced shoes and yoga capri's with the paint stain on the hip, I will look square into those mirrors and feel perfectly contented to be me.

Friday

Laying on my side, I feel the cold hard tires of a bright yellow Ford truck creeping up the side of my head and over my ear. The fact that it has 'Mattel' stamped on its undercarriage and weighs as much as a small carrot, makes the odds of my survival favorable. I turn my neck and squint open my left eye to see my two year old son sitting at the top of my pillow. He greets me with a, "Hi, mom!". The special sound effects from the chest cold I have make my reply to him sound like an unintelligible combination of The Chipmunks and synthesized balloons deflating. I turn back over to reach for my cell phone and check the time. It is just after six in the morning, which explains why it is still dark and why I am trying to justify to myself grounding a toddler. The cell phone light is bright enough to pierce my soul and I consider actually bargaining with Heaven for a few more minutes of uninterrupted slumber.

I hear the first sounds of my two oldest girls moving into the bathroom from their room. They have a field trip today and they are up early, undoubtedly because of their excitement. My second two year old joins her twin at the top of my pillow, but not before pulling at every single root on my scalp by walking across my hair, and says, "Wate up , mommy! Waaaate up!". Moments later, Stinky Pete slides almost silently on to Shawn's empty side of the bed. A workday for the Department Of Defense starts early so I am left with my freckled red head laying in an outline of his dad's mattress indentation, eyes closed and smiling. The twins are rummaging through the drawers of the nightstand looking for some delightful treasure like lip balm, a marker, or, hoping for the motherlode, some gum. They rhythmically take turns pushing each other to the side with their hip to assert control of who will get their hands on any sort of treasure first.

At this point the girls are standing at my doorway urgently pleading with me to get up. They lecture me compassionately and slowly so that I understand their need to get to school because they don't want to miss their special field trip. I inform them that it is 6:13 and I am absolutely sure that there are no buses loading or yet en route to the Orchestra. I begin to pep talk myself out of bed with the promise that in sixteen short hours or so, I will sleep again. I am well aware, after years of parenting, that the mornings you are sick or extra tired, are the ones that usually begin the earliest. It's a proven rule.

The girls busy themselves making toast and scrambled eggs as I pull on my pants from the day before and throw on a t-shirt. I feel instant gratitude that they are able to be so independent. I brush through my hair in the dark and pull it in to a quick ponytail. Turning on the lights would just confirm that I am awake which is something I am not yet ready to do. Charlotte has found a Valentine's Day lollipop and is racing to get off the wrapper without taking her eyes off me. Her frantic unwrapping grows exponentially with each step closer to her I take. I immediately, in my head, begin cursing the lollipop company, candy in general, and myself for not hiding it better. Sam is in the hallway with a stray pencil drawing a small circle on the wall. I grab it with the stealth prowess only a mother develops from being yards away from her toddler and an uncapped Sharpie. I dress them, all the while listening to my daughter mourn the loss of her sugary companion. We make our way down the stairs. The twins are hungry and I am super excited to get started on the laundry pile sitting next to the washer.

After everyone is fed and lunches are put in backpacks, we are ready to walk out the door. Madeleine, with a Chief-of-Police-like furrowed brow, looks me over and says, "Mom, what is wrong with your hair?". I remember that I fell asleep damp headed last night but I reply, "I woke up too early. That's what's wrong with it." We make our way out the door to the car. I am barely stopped in front of the school when the doors fly open and the kids race out of the car. I enjoy a sentimental moment watching my crazy, amazing children shouting out spontaneous "I love you's" as they run to their classrooms. I feel a moment of mom pride that so far they seem to be surviving my parenting just fine and as I turn on my signal to make my way out from the school and head for home, I look down and realize I put my pants on inside out.

Christmas 2011

There was bribery. There was the typical chaos of arranging a gaggle of children with the naive hope that this time we would catch a unanimous smile. There is no synchronization here, but there is love. We share it with you and wish you a very Merry Christmas.

School of the South pt. 1

To clarify, this post refers to our first move to the south in June 2009


As we crossed over the Texas border into Louisiana the excitement for our new adventure had turned into thinly veiled tolerance for each other. The car seemed smaller than when we had started, we were sick of "travel food", our best and favorite music had become annoying, and silence had replaced excited chatter about new opportunities and possibilities. We pulled into a gas station adorned simply with a hand painted sign reading, "GAS" in bold blue letters. A bathroom break and stretching our legs should certainly help undo some of our road weariness. How could I have known that opening the door to the shopette would be opening a door to much more than an endless variety of chips?

I was quickly greeted with a nod and a "Ma'am". That's right! I had officially entered a part of the country where being called ma'am was no longer a stabbing reminder that I was obviously in possession of too many facial creases to be called a Miss. It was now a title; something that I could look forward to hearing out of respect. My satisfied smile was quickly wiped off my face when I spotted a jar of pickled eggs sitting on the counter near the register. And next to the pickled eggs, a jar of pickled pig’s feet sat ready to induce a hearty round of mental dry heaves. I looked to my left and my kids were gathered around a shelf which held many treasures that would make any newcomer ooh and ah. I, like the kids, studied the detailed teeth attached to the alligator jaw poised and open for our inspection. But as I turned and spotted the assortment of dried snakes tacked to the brown paneled wall, I was ready to call off the whole thing.For me, snakes are a deal killer plain and simple. Normally just the reminder of snakes is enough to alter my mood. But this time I think my dislike was amplified by the knowledge that there were just as many recipes here that called for snake as there were snakes to begin with. The first real pang of "what in the world are we doing?!" washed over me with enough force to send adrenaline through my body. I was careful to hide my suddenly twisted face from my kids and anxiously surveyed the shop for my husband's face. I knew it would calm me. He walked over with a smile. He knew what I was thinking. I threw my arms around him and laid my head on his chest (which was more like his stomach since my enormously pregnant belly kept me from correctly aligning myself with his body to reach his chest). I felt better for about three seconds until I finally tuned into the lyrics of the country song blaring from the duct taped stereo sitting on a shelf behind the counter. The songs chorus went something like blah blah blah "I wanna check you fer ticks". I knew then that this had to be some sort of initiation carried out by a local theatrical group. The kind that met after work on Wednesdays to practice their craft, in preparation for their weekends spent at the GAS station, welcoming Yankees to the south. The lyrics were not referencing a man in a lab coat with a clipboard questioning a patient about neurologically induced twitches. No, tick with a K. The visual in my mind played out vividly. One man in overalls hovered over another man's head (think gorilla's cleaning each other) with such determination and focus, his nose and mouth twisted tightly as he examined his friend, maybe cousin, for the annoying little pests. Mayday! Mayday! But it was too late to turn back.

That night, after we checked in at the hotel closest to the base, we stopped in at a Shoney's for dinner (don't ask). The kids occupied themselves with the buffet and my husband and I sat across from each other, tired and a bit dazed. He reached for my hand and that was all it took to incite tears. Abundant, crazy pregnant tears. I had lived in a foreign country before, been in many new situations, faced with uncomfortable or unusual circumstances. But it didn't matter then. I was tired and I missed what I was used to. The reality of our unfamiliar surroundings and the exhaustion of such a move had finally overthrown my last surviving thread of positive thinking.

More to come....

To Whom it May Concern

I should have tacked this on to my last post but didn't. Our family is on to our next adventure. We are moving to the great and proud state of Texas next month. Shawn will be the new director of Communications at the Naval Air Station in Corpus Christi. The kids are excited to be close to the beach; we all are. New experiences, growth and opportunities=good. Leaving dear friends=bad.

Hamming it up

My son takes himself way too seriously.

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Exhibit C:

Exhibit D:

Exhibit E:

More Compassion

So many of the days during my husbands deployment were a blur. Not because it was all terrible but because the load I carried seemed to give me little time for processing. I do remember one winter afternoon, clearly. I was at the grocery store with my toddler son, waiting for a prescription, after just having spent much of the afternoon waiting for a visit with the doctor, after having spent the last sleepless night caring for and worrying about him. During the short wait at the pharmacy, his discomfort grew as well as my anxiety to get him home as quickly as possible. He hadn't had much of an appetite, yet I had been giving him Motrin to help with his fever, which doesn't always sit well on an empty stomach. I grabbed the bag, paid for its contents and tucked him up into me as I hurried to the car. As we approached, I noticed a cart blocking my door. I quickly pushed it up past my car door, focused on getting us home. As I started to open the door, I heard the two men behind me express their disapproval of me not putting my cart back. Looking straight at me, yet talking to each other, they made sure I understood that it was selfish and lazy of me not to do so. (If you read one of my previous posts, you would know exactly how I feel on the matter.) My immediate reaction was a bit of disbelief over how forward and critical they were. Then my son threw up. I started to clean him up, struggling to see what I was doing through the tears. I wanted so badly to tell them they had some nerve and no idea what was going on. That I was tired, alone, worn, and a nice person that usually returned my carts and that it wasn't even my cart to begin with! I drove home feeling a combination of self-pity and deep irritation. I kept thinking about what I would have said to them had I been given another opportunity. I looked back at my son through the mirror and saw his sweet little face. And that red, tired face softened my heart. The anger I was feeling slipped away and everything seemed to quiet around me. I knew it was learning time. So I listened. And in my heart and mind came the reminder that though the lack of compassion shown to me was wrong, so was my withholding compassion from the seemingly compassion-less.

Compassion is something I think a lot about. It is an attribute that is not just one on my checklist of attributes to have but one that finds its way into my introspection on a constant level. The times I missed an opportunity to carry or "be there" for someone stay with me and serve as reminders in my every day life. So why did it seem that in some of the most crucial moments where what I needed most was compassion, did I receive the opposite? Like that afternoon, over the course of time, I am being taught that sometimes my Heavenly Father wants me to know that He is the only one that can know all of the details. That sometimes He is the only one that will know my heart completely and that I am striving, trying, and putting my cart back when no one else knows it. And I have to be okay with that. Over all, I can't consider myself compassionate if I can't show compassion in situations where it is being directly withheld from me. Man, I have a long way to go. But I think I am also okay with that.