"You're doing much better than I would be doing in your circumstance." It's a refrain that I hear often and from people who mean it with the very best of intentions. But today as I sat in church and my pastor talked about our ability to abuse our story by making light of it, by making it smaller than it truly is, I realized that I have been misrepresenting myself if people are viewing me as strong and brave.
There has been a lot of light in my story. There has been a lot of provision and love and reminders of who God is and who I will continue to be even when this chapter of my story is over. A story that feels as though it is finally nearing some sort of end, even as there's still palpable confusion for everyone involved what that is. God is laying bricks for a new foundation and a life that doesn't fully look or feel like my own yet. I find relief in the neatness of things falling into place. I find comfort in the rhythms of a new and exhausting life. I find joy in a job with purpose. As these same words escape my lips to friends, family, people at church, I know that the truth is my soul is mourning. My soul has not stopped mourning. It has not found peace.
During a yoga class weeks ago, the words "joy in the chaos" popped into my head. They have played over and over again. I know they are for me but I have not seen them come to fruition. Rather than the joy, I have found my old patterns of hiding. I have found that I can find joy if I only think about the dream job I have, the precious time I get with my son, the boy who took me on a date, or the run that pushed me longer than the day before. But don't the bruises of life always seem so much more real in the quiet, when we're sitting at a coffee shop, absolutely surrounded by people and noise but so alone that you find the breath catching in your throat?
I used to love my little hiding place. I used to love closing the door and locking the hurt away before I left the house. Now in the hiding, I find lonliness. In the hiding, I find guilt. In the hiding, I feel shame. In the hiding, I feel a hammer smashing my heart into smaller and smaller pieces. My heart, the truth of who I am and where I am at right now, disappearing a little more into dust as I hide.
It is clear to me that the bricks God is laying for this new foundation are not meant to build a new hiding place, they are meant to build a gathering place. I no longer want to be in a position where I am here, with my community, talking about all things besides the ones that matter. We were never meant to walk this life alone, especially in the hardest of times.
And so I will begin. I will begin to be brave. I will begin to feel joy in the very truest of chaos. I will begin to be honest. I will begin with the simplest of words, the biggest of truths.
My heart is broken.
My eyes are more often wet than dry.
Most nights I don't sleep.
I still miss you.
Sunday, March 19, 2017
Sunday, February 12, 2017
Spokane: a Love story.
By the time I found myself celebrating my twenty-sixth birthday several weeks before moving to Spokane, I didn't really know what Christianity or God looked like to me anymore. Days before said birthday, I had felt God meet me there on that mountain top, an (almost) lifelong friend singing my Grandmother's favorite hymn, my sibling's voice meeting mine to sing "All I hath needed thy hand hath provided, Great is thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!" in front of 109 of my favorite people. But was that God, or was that the God of circumstances I was singing to? Did I believe that the God who created this perfect pocket of joy overlooking the rolling hills of Alleghany County was the same God who allowed our Porter's first sonogram to be filled with the sound of my heartbreaking into a million tiny pieces to fill the place where Porter's silent heart was? The truth is by twenty-six my idea of God was clouded by my idea of church, my idea of my own identity, and my years of falling away from faith.
Twenty-six years is a lot of time to cover and it is not the main point of the story I want to tell today so I will make it quick. Years of going to evangelical churches had led me to believe that I would know God by a feeling. I don't know if anyone actually told me this, but church and faith became some sort of high for me. You went to church on Sunday. You felt the Holy Spirit move. You talked in the Community Hall for an hour after the service. You listened to some worship music and sent up some prayers during the week. I am sure this is not everyone's experiences in the churches I attended but it was mine. As I grew more socially liberal, all I could hear coming from many pulpits was hate speech. They were not biblical convictions, of which my understanding of the Gospel led me to have many, but rather speech that excluded those whom I loved, those whom I ran into in my college hallways, those that I had the power to invite in.
I would say I never officially stepped away from my faith but the next six years were spent in a place where I would only accept that God existed, show up sometimes on Sunday when I wasn't hung over, but didn't want to put anymore work into it than that. When I finally listened enough to hear God again, it was in the form of the parents of a sweet Toddler in my classroom. They extended an invitation via Facebook for anyone to join them at church. Jim and I had a fight the night before and church seemed the place I would feel met. Jim not wanting me to leave in the midst of an unresolved fight joined, attending a non-denominational church for the first time. From the moment we stepped in the door we felt welcomed. The congregation was socioeconomically and racially diverse. The church had a funny, dynamic pastor. I would've paid just to get in for the worship. Each week we walked away with a tidy list of how to grow in faith and love and would spend hours at breakfast talking about what all of this meant in our lives. Even now when I see the church's updates pop up on my Facebook feed, my heart feels like the church is a part of me, and I, a part of it. Do you see how many times I've said church here and how few times I've said God or Jesus? It took me almost two years of being removed from the church to finally give it the title of following "Oprah Christianity". I love that church. I love the people I have met there and that they guided us through our time as an engaged couple, but it was like going to a Ted Talk with a little Jesus cherry on top.
Seven weeks after arriving in Spokane I was 40 weeks pregnant and had not spoken to anyone but Jim in all that time. Sitting in Starbucks I saw a man sitting across from me in a Seahawks jersey. Sports. I could do this.
"Are the Seahawks going to be on good this year?"
It was a simple question that led to us entering in to a messy and beautiful life that is still messy and beautiful. You see, Aaron, is the Lead Deacon at Soma Spokane. That day rather than turn back to his work, Aaron sat and listened to the story of how I landed in Spokane 33 weeks pregnant. Not only did Aaron listen but he handed me his card and asked us to come to dinner at his Missional Community. 41 weeks pregnant we arrived at Missional Community to enjoy a meal with 3 families of strangers. We weren't sure what we were walking into, or even what the point of the community was as we sat, talking and eating (If you're interested in what I'm talking about http://somaspokane.org/gatherings/missional-communities/). What I did know is there was something so attractive about the open arms of the body of Christ. One week later when Porter was born and we found ourselves alone in a NICU room, these people who had only known us a week, reached out and asked what they could do. Porter needed someone other than us cheering him on and so we asked that they come, that they show up and hold him, giving him love and hope. These people, these sweet families, they were the outward expression of God's love for us.
I would love to tell you that my story from there was one of joy and love in God who was good but it was much uglier than that. As I fell into my depression and rage, these people who we did life with were not spared. Many days I showed up to events and was combative, rude, and found things to criticize. Even in my brokenness, they met me. They talked with us about our struggles trying to get to the bottom of it all and showing up at my house unannounced when they knew I hadn't showered in days and felt as though I was drowning. Their faithfulness was God's pursuing of my heart, but yet, I didn't see it.
For almost two years we went through this pattern. I showed up. I kept on my masks but I showed up. There was something so undeniable attractive about being in a church where you had your people who knew your mess and your story. In January 2016, our Missional Community had grown too large and so we decided to multiple. When the shake out happened, the Simon family moved with Aaron and his wife, and in that moment I knew if we were going to start this Missional Community thing fresh that I was going to have to actually commit. I had to take my toe out of the water and just dive. My commitment was to forget everything that had got mudded in the last 20 years of being a Christian and come to the table with nothing to give but to want to know Jesus more.
One year later that humbling and willingness to sacrifice has been life changing. I have been met by a God who loves me and is for me. A God who has given me grace upon grace. A God that says there's freedom to fail. A God who calls me loved, worthy, wanted, seen and known. A God who has invited me to join in this beautiful family of his and be messy. There are no more masks that I can wear that will make me better than what He's already created me to be. I have learned what community looks like. What truly loving and walking with people looks like. It is not perfect. It's messy and it's hurtful. It's discipleship and it's deep relationship.
My favorite Jesus story is the one that started that day in the coffee shop. As my life imploded several months ago I felt worthless, unloved, replaced and as I came with my tears and my brokenness to Aaron and Megan's table they said "We desire for you to live with us." There were so many things they could have said to me that night at the table but their word for me was that not just they, but that God desired to meet me, in the midst of my rejection. Right now I am having a lot of trouble not taking one day at a time. I continue to look at the destruction that will be left in a week, in a month, in a year. The truth is that 3 years ago when I spoke to Aaron at a coffee shop, I would never have predicted that I would live in his home when I had no other options. But God. God knew. He provided for me and continues to provide for my in so many little and big ways. He has set my path.
Now, on the cusp of my thirtieth birthday, I am only beginning to understand who God is. In the midst of all the heartbreak and pain associated with Spokane, I have met God here, and that, that makes the city the most beautiful part of my story.
Twenty-six years is a lot of time to cover and it is not the main point of the story I want to tell today so I will make it quick. Years of going to evangelical churches had led me to believe that I would know God by a feeling. I don't know if anyone actually told me this, but church and faith became some sort of high for me. You went to church on Sunday. You felt the Holy Spirit move. You talked in the Community Hall for an hour after the service. You listened to some worship music and sent up some prayers during the week. I am sure this is not everyone's experiences in the churches I attended but it was mine. As I grew more socially liberal, all I could hear coming from many pulpits was hate speech. They were not biblical convictions, of which my understanding of the Gospel led me to have many, but rather speech that excluded those whom I loved, those whom I ran into in my college hallways, those that I had the power to invite in.
I would say I never officially stepped away from my faith but the next six years were spent in a place where I would only accept that God existed, show up sometimes on Sunday when I wasn't hung over, but didn't want to put anymore work into it than that. When I finally listened enough to hear God again, it was in the form of the parents of a sweet Toddler in my classroom. They extended an invitation via Facebook for anyone to join them at church. Jim and I had a fight the night before and church seemed the place I would feel met. Jim not wanting me to leave in the midst of an unresolved fight joined, attending a non-denominational church for the first time. From the moment we stepped in the door we felt welcomed. The congregation was socioeconomically and racially diverse. The church had a funny, dynamic pastor. I would've paid just to get in for the worship. Each week we walked away with a tidy list of how to grow in faith and love and would spend hours at breakfast talking about what all of this meant in our lives. Even now when I see the church's updates pop up on my Facebook feed, my heart feels like the church is a part of me, and I, a part of it. Do you see how many times I've said church here and how few times I've said God or Jesus? It took me almost two years of being removed from the church to finally give it the title of following "Oprah Christianity". I love that church. I love the people I have met there and that they guided us through our time as an engaged couple, but it was like going to a Ted Talk with a little Jesus cherry on top.
Seven weeks after arriving in Spokane I was 40 weeks pregnant and had not spoken to anyone but Jim in all that time. Sitting in Starbucks I saw a man sitting across from me in a Seahawks jersey. Sports. I could do this.
"Are the Seahawks going to be on good this year?"
It was a simple question that led to us entering in to a messy and beautiful life that is still messy and beautiful. You see, Aaron, is the Lead Deacon at Soma Spokane. That day rather than turn back to his work, Aaron sat and listened to the story of how I landed in Spokane 33 weeks pregnant. Not only did Aaron listen but he handed me his card and asked us to come to dinner at his Missional Community. 41 weeks pregnant we arrived at Missional Community to enjoy a meal with 3 families of strangers. We weren't sure what we were walking into, or even what the point of the community was as we sat, talking and eating (If you're interested in what I'm talking about http://somaspokane.org/gatherings/missional-communities/). What I did know is there was something so attractive about the open arms of the body of Christ. One week later when Porter was born and we found ourselves alone in a NICU room, these people who had only known us a week, reached out and asked what they could do. Porter needed someone other than us cheering him on and so we asked that they come, that they show up and hold him, giving him love and hope. These people, these sweet families, they were the outward expression of God's love for us.
I would love to tell you that my story from there was one of joy and love in God who was good but it was much uglier than that. As I fell into my depression and rage, these people who we did life with were not spared. Many days I showed up to events and was combative, rude, and found things to criticize. Even in my brokenness, they met me. They talked with us about our struggles trying to get to the bottom of it all and showing up at my house unannounced when they knew I hadn't showered in days and felt as though I was drowning. Their faithfulness was God's pursuing of my heart, but yet, I didn't see it.
For almost two years we went through this pattern. I showed up. I kept on my masks but I showed up. There was something so undeniable attractive about being in a church where you had your people who knew your mess and your story. In January 2016, our Missional Community had grown too large and so we decided to multiple. When the shake out happened, the Simon family moved with Aaron and his wife, and in that moment I knew if we were going to start this Missional Community thing fresh that I was going to have to actually commit. I had to take my toe out of the water and just dive. My commitment was to forget everything that had got mudded in the last 20 years of being a Christian and come to the table with nothing to give but to want to know Jesus more.
One year later that humbling and willingness to sacrifice has been life changing. I have been met by a God who loves me and is for me. A God who has given me grace upon grace. A God that says there's freedom to fail. A God who calls me loved, worthy, wanted, seen and known. A God who has invited me to join in this beautiful family of his and be messy. There are no more masks that I can wear that will make me better than what He's already created me to be. I have learned what community looks like. What truly loving and walking with people looks like. It is not perfect. It's messy and it's hurtful. It's discipleship and it's deep relationship.
My favorite Jesus story is the one that started that day in the coffee shop. As my life imploded several months ago I felt worthless, unloved, replaced and as I came with my tears and my brokenness to Aaron and Megan's table they said "We desire for you to live with us." There were so many things they could have said to me that night at the table but their word for me was that not just they, but that God desired to meet me, in the midst of my rejection. Right now I am having a lot of trouble not taking one day at a time. I continue to look at the destruction that will be left in a week, in a month, in a year. The truth is that 3 years ago when I spoke to Aaron at a coffee shop, I would never have predicted that I would live in his home when I had no other options. But God. God knew. He provided for me and continues to provide for my in so many little and big ways. He has set my path.
Now, on the cusp of my thirtieth birthday, I am only beginning to understand who God is. In the midst of all the heartbreak and pain associated with Spokane, I have met God here, and that, that makes the city the most beautiful part of my story.
Friday, September 23, 2016
Porter James Ulysses Simon: Year 2.
Dearest Porter-
I am in a constant state of preparing it seems. This week alone I am preparing for your birthday and your Spokane birthday party. I am preparing for you to move to a big kid bed and to roll up the rugs and cancel all plans to potty train you. I am preparing to turn your car seat front facing and I am preparing for you to go to daycare twice as much so that I can find more of myself than "Mom". I'm constantly preparing for the next meltdown, the next moment of discipline, the next creator of stress. There's nothing wrong with all this planning but it has left me looking ahead rather than just resting in the beauty of each moment with you. I apologize to you for that.
I am so thankful for the moments that I did slow down to just enjoy the world with you. The time that we spent getting to know each other. I remember when you were born and the world was just so hurtful to you, every day seeming to hold a new offense for you to scream at. I didn't think we'd ever love each other. I am so glad it wasn't true. I think you needed to meet the ocean. You needed to let the sand run through your hands and the water to splash against your legs. You needed to know that there was something so much bigger than you and I out there making sure that the world was not that scary a place. You always return to the water. You always long to float and splash in it; to just be, you and nature. I know in my heart that some day you'll know who the Creator is and that he created that special comfort just for you.
You provide me that very same comfort. As we flew around the country this year, your little body always leaned against mine just as we took off, slowing my heart and reminding me that everything I loved was right there with me. In your two years, you've already proven to be much more of an adventurer than me. Always looking for a new way to challenge yourself and a new game to play. Recently your pediatrician told me that you are more comfortable with strangers and new situations than most children your age. He told me "you must be doing a great job with him because he knows that you're always here for him and you always be there when he gets into trouble." I like to think that Dr. Olsen was right. Not just now, but for always. We will be here when you get into troubles because you need the same grace that we so desperately need. A grace without judgment or anger but with love and understanding. I feel like I tell you this truth almost every day but I will repeat it again, although I correct you, although you are sometimes indeed "in trouble", although you don't always act the way I wish, my love for you will never change. It is steadfast, unchanging and true.
I have not always perfectly shown that. I have at times been frustrated, yelled, and made you cry with the very tone of my voice. I have handed you off to your Dad and left the house for a walk. I have learned not to expect perfection from myself, just as I don't expect it from you. I am a fallen human and sometimes my emotions are bigger than the me that I want to be for you. Thank you for meeting me after those moments with a giggle and a tight squeeze around the neck. I am glad that I can show you what real life looks like with it's whole range of emotions knowing that you are always there waiting for my apologize with a smile. Some day I am sure it will be met with a slam of the door and "I hate you" so I will cherish this phase while I can.
You are a two-year-old whose dreams are made of cars, Curious George, and forts. It is my job to show you the world so you can learn to love the world; not just those people who are like us but those who we don't understand, those that are less fortunate, and even those we feel like we have ever reason to hate. I will do my best to take this time of innocence and sweetness and stretch it as long as I can. I will continue to ignore the cleaning and get on the floor. I will get messy crawl in the yard with you. I will let us have flour fights. I will let you paint your face, and mine, if you wish. I will let you run across the neighbors yard knowing that they'll find the same light in your smile that I do. We have so much more to learn, to explore, to pray about, to understand, to forgive, and to fight about and for, but for today, I will meet you right where you, my dearest little one. Show me what your little eyes see and what your little mind thinks.
Happy Birthday, my sweet, gentle, Porter Pie.
Momma
You are a two-year-old whose dreams are made of cars, Curious George, and forts. It is my job to show you the world so you can learn to love the world; not just those people who are like us but those who we don't understand, those that are less fortunate, and even those we feel like we have ever reason to hate. I will do my best to take this time of innocence and sweetness and stretch it as long as I can. I will continue to ignore the cleaning and get on the floor. I will get messy crawl in the yard with you. I will let us have flour fights. I will let you paint your face, and mine, if you wish. I will let you run across the neighbors yard knowing that they'll find the same light in your smile that I do. We have so much more to learn, to explore, to pray about, to understand, to forgive, and to fight about and for, but for today, I will meet you right where you, my dearest little one. Show me what your little eyes see and what your little mind thinks.
Happy Birthday, my sweet, gentle, Porter Pie.
Momma
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Friday, May 6, 2016
mommy guilt.
"Oh, I'm so
sorry."
It slipped out of my mouth
before I even realized what I was saying. What I should have said is, "Hi.
My name is Beth and because I am a woman, I will always apologize for silly
things, including the piece of paper I dropped by your foot. I will always
apologize because I think I am too little or too much, too clumsy or too silly,
too loud or too unfeminine."
I don't believe that I am
alone in feeling like I need to apologize for things; that I need to feel an
instant pang of guilt about many decisions, big or small, in life. There are so
many things that people worry about and have guilt or anxiety about. I can't
judge what impacts other people, after all I am the one who had a full panic
attack complete with crying and screaming on an airplane this week, but the
infamous "mommy guilt" is nothing that has ever crossed my mind. Do I
sometimes worry whether my son is hitting his developmental milestones? Of
course, because he never is, but never do I sit up at night questioning
something that I did because the truth is, Snappy Impatient Mom comes out.
Snappy Impatient Mom is probably the most real side of this mom. I won’t
apologize for being real with my child.
The first time I heard the
grumblings of mommy guilt was from Mother's with older children who would say
"I don't know where I went wrong." At the time I couldn't directly
apply the concept to guilt, I would have said heartbreak and disappointment,
but that is what was masked under the statement. Mother's feel like it’s a part of the universal
experience of motherhood to question the things we do for or with our children.
Working mother's worry about our children spending so much time at daycare
while us stay at home Mom's wonder about the identity and careers that we are
giving up in order to take on this new title of Mom. With the never ending new
surge of "methods" to raise and educate our kids there are even more
ways for us to doubt that we are doing what's best for our little ones. Let’s
not even get started on those stupid Huffington Post articles that seem to just
be written to piss each of us off, the breastfeeding wars, or birthing
practices.
Do you want to know the
moment that I know I am parenting correctly? It is the moment that people role
their eyes at me or tell me they don't understand. The best thing I can do for
my child is forget about the articles, the books, the advice of others and be
the confident Mother who knows what is important within my individual family
(and two dad families, you are caregivers too, and may have these same doubts
and guilt). There is nothing inherently wrong with having a good Momma circle
to guide you, trust me, I would be nowhere without mine. Or, reading a
parenting book—I read about one a week—but it is when we start questioning out
intentions towards our child that they will begin to suffer, because that is
when Mother's begin to suffer. It's when a Mom will start to feel like she is
doing something wrong, when she feels like she's alone, when she feels like her
world is falling down around her that she is unable to freely be the best
Mother she can be. At the core of every Mom’s heart is to love their child and
be loved and appreciated in return.
Let me tell you some
things about myself as a mother:
-I encapsulated my
placenta and downed 6 of those pills a day.
-I birthed naturally at a
Birthing Center with no doctors or interventions present.
-I think that
breastfeeding is the worst thing that I've ever done to myself.
-My son had extreme colic.
I'm still a little bit convinced it may have been his fault all along.
-I send my one-year-old to
school one day a week so that I can do an hour of errands and 7 hours of
whatever the heck I want.
-I think the most
important thing I can do for my son is give him tons of experience in nature so
that he can learn through open-ended playing rather than with toys that have a
right and wrong solution.
-I think the worst thing I
can do for my child is let him interact with iPhones, iPads, and computers.
-I let my son watch one
show a day (see above).
-I think the modern school
system is broken and there is no way in h-e-double hockey sticks I will ever
let him step foot in a public school.
-I have a goal to give my
child no processed sugar or flour
-We go out for pastries
(at least) once a week.
-My son currently takes
swim lessons and soccer lessons (he used to also take a music class). I loathe
how overbooked our schedule is and I can’t wait to be done and not take any
classes for a long time.
Do you see the common theme there? "I". What I, personally,
feel is best for MY child. I think if we all turned the lens onto ourselves and
what we personally believe to be true for our families, we would all less
guilty and more joyful. We are all as unique as our experiences. Our children
are all going to be as unique as their experience and upbringing as well. It is
what makes our world thrive. What we owe each other is a whole lot of kindness
and gentleness. I love what the Pastor at my old church said about gentleness.
He said that Gentleness is a decision to respond to a person in light of their
strength or weakness, instead of responding out of our strength. We have
nothing to gain out of expressing how wonderful our child is or what a strong
parent we are, we must meet others where they are at and let them know that
they are not alone in this.
I am by no means perfect. The good news is I don’t have to be. I live in
a bigger story of Grace. By pretending that I am perfect, whether it’s to my
husband, or friends, or even my child, I miss the opportunity to teach them
about my huge reliance on Jesus. When I truly believe that my identity is found
in Christ, I am able to let go of the title of “Mom”, and know that is just one
more way that God has chosen to use me in his story. He has enabled me to love
and be responsible for a little guy who I can so quickly resent when I forget
that this is where I am called in the here and now.
I recently came upon this quote: “Treat your child like a seed that came
in a package without a label. You can’t tell what kind of flower you’re going
to get or in what season it will bloom. Your job is to pull the biggest weeds,
provide sufficient food and water, and stand back and wait.” It may just be my
new favorite mantra. I completely believe it for Porter, but I believe it for
myself. I may be in my late-20’s but I am still someone’s daughter. I joke with
my Mom that I would be an adult at 30. The truth is I don’t have to make those
plans, and my Mom doesn’t have to make them for me. My heavenly father will
guide my steps out of my faithfulness as a Mother, a Wife, and part of a
community.
Moms: You don’t have to be perfect. It’s not on you to know the right
thing all the time. It is on you to pray, to gain wisdom from a small counsel
of trusted friends and family who know your story and heart, to guide your
children through their trials, to admit to them your weaknesses as they bleed
out into your lives, as they tend to do, and to apologize when you wrong your
child, just like you would with an adult. It is not on your shoulders. I hope
this Mother’s Day you find rest in the fact that you are doing the best for the
sweet child entrusted to you.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
the first four months.
Jim and I are both avid writers. We scribble notes in our Field Notes or Best Made notebooks. I was writing one of these normal passages, which of late have been my venting source when I am at my breaking point. I started to think some day Porter will probably find these journals in a box in the attic. What would he think when he read the entries from the last few months? Would I edit what I wrote in anticipation of him some day finding these? Then I thought, what would I tell Porter about the first 4 months of his life.
Porter-
The day that I met you I expected to hold you for hours and take you home that night. Instead you were whisked away to the hospital and I didn't get to hold you for a few days. You looked so helpless with all those tubes and wires on you. When we would tell people your name they would tell us that it was such a strong name and I knew it was the name meant for you. I didn't have to worry about you because you were a fighter. You healed better and quicker than they thought you would.
The first night we brought you home, I woke up at your first cry. You didn't always have to eat but you always needed a cuddle. You missed us and we missed you. We spent a lot of time trying to figure out what your every cry meant. You loved to cry in the evening and we quickly realized that your witching hour was as soon as your daddy walked through the door. The first few weeks we did nothing but pace with you around the house wondering why you wouldn't just go to sleep.
In this whirlwind of your first month, I forgot what it was like to drink hot coffee, what it was like to eat a meal when I was hungry, and what it was like to have a conversation with your father. No matter how much I prepared for you I didn't realize the selflessness necessary to take care of a little baby.
There were nights when I had to text or call people to tell me that it was okay to step away and leave you crying for a few minutes. There were nights when I would sit and cry with you crying in my arms. There were nights that I had to call Daddy into the room so that he could try to get you to bed. For a while it seemed like the middle of the night was your favorite time to be up, just staring at the ceiling lamp. In the morning when you were ready for the day to begin, you would meet me with a smile. It was always the thing that made me think, maybe today will be better.
Sometimes the days felt even longer than the nights. You would spend most of the day yelling at me. Pooping, puking and spitting up on me. You would fight me to take naps and for about a month there you would only fall asleep if I was doing lunges, squats or some kind of silly dance. I would get so upset. Then I realized that every day you were yelling at me, it meant that you were learning something new. At first it was hard for you to just stay awake for more than a half hour but before I knew it you were lifting your head on your own, rolling from your tummy to back, rolling both ways, talking, learning to army crawl. Every time I felt like this was the day that break me you would conquer the world again.
Once you started teething, it seemed like every day was a guessing game on how your mood would be. Usually it was somewhere between upset and hysterical. I would tip toe around you like if I made a wrong move you would let out a gigantic wail. The guessing game was one of my favorites. I would start with taking off your clothes, move to burping, changing your diaper, change of toys, teething tablets, gas drops, gripe water, nap, until the decision was made that today you just felt like crying.
One time I ate cabbage. The next day was not either of our favorite day. There were many days when I would count down the hours until your Daddy got home from work. Not that I thought he would have a magic solution but rather both of us needed a break from each other. We would slip off your clothes and put you in the bathtub. As soon as you were in the bathroom you would calm down. There was something magically about the water to you. You would willing spend a half an hour kicking your legs in the water. Once you were dressed and ready for bed Daddy and I would sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle' to you, even if you were crying, you would instantly stop and smile at us.
Putting you to bed was always my favorite part of the night. Not because I was glad to be rid of you but because you would sweetly nurse yourself to sleep. It was my nightly reminder that if I felt like I had failed the rest of the day, you still needed me. After you'd been asleep awhile I snuck into your room. There I would find you swaddled in bed with your two best buds, arms in the air in surrender, as though to say "I have exhausted myself today. I give in to the calm of this night." Thankfully, once you were about three months old, you realized that everyone had a better night if you just got up to eat once or twice and then went straight to bed.
Baby Porter, the truth is that over the last 4 months I haven't felt like a very good Mommy. I haven't felt like a very good wife. I have felt like your crying was my fault. I have felt like if I could read you better we would all be more comfortable. I don't have a big life here in Spokane and that makes me feel like all my energy can go to making your life the best it possibly can be. I'm not sure if I'm doing that every day. One night when we were visiting Buffalo, your Grammy was sure to tell me that I was doing a good job. She said that I was loving and protecting and trying to figure out the best ways to do things. I think it took her telling me that for me to truly understand that every day doesn't have to be perfect in order for it to be a good day. I don't have to be perfect to be a good parent. It's okay if I need to leave and go get a coffee so that I have 20 minutes to myself.
What I can tell you baby Port, is that every day your little smile steals my breath. Some days your giggles are rare but the days that I do get them, it feels like a piece of my heart that has been empty is getting filled. I find being your Mommy the most difficult thing I have ever tried to do, and at times I don't love it, but at all times I love you and find your life to be the most fulfilling thing I have ever been a part of.
I will love you to the moon and back, little one.
Mommy
Porter-
The day that I met you I expected to hold you for hours and take you home that night. Instead you were whisked away to the hospital and I didn't get to hold you for a few days. You looked so helpless with all those tubes and wires on you. When we would tell people your name they would tell us that it was such a strong name and I knew it was the name meant for you. I didn't have to worry about you because you were a fighter. You healed better and quicker than they thought you would.
The first night we brought you home, I woke up at your first cry. You didn't always have to eat but you always needed a cuddle. You missed us and we missed you. We spent a lot of time trying to figure out what your every cry meant. You loved to cry in the evening and we quickly realized that your witching hour was as soon as your daddy walked through the door. The first few weeks we did nothing but pace with you around the house wondering why you wouldn't just go to sleep.
In this whirlwind of your first month, I forgot what it was like to drink hot coffee, what it was like to eat a meal when I was hungry, and what it was like to have a conversation with your father. No matter how much I prepared for you I didn't realize the selflessness necessary to take care of a little baby.
There were nights when I had to text or call people to tell me that it was okay to step away and leave you crying for a few minutes. There were nights when I would sit and cry with you crying in my arms. There were nights that I had to call Daddy into the room so that he could try to get you to bed. For a while it seemed like the middle of the night was your favorite time to be up, just staring at the ceiling lamp. In the morning when you were ready for the day to begin, you would meet me with a smile. It was always the thing that made me think, maybe today will be better.
Sometimes the days felt even longer than the nights. You would spend most of the day yelling at me. Pooping, puking and spitting up on me. You would fight me to take naps and for about a month there you would only fall asleep if I was doing lunges, squats or some kind of silly dance. I would get so upset. Then I realized that every day you were yelling at me, it meant that you were learning something new. At first it was hard for you to just stay awake for more than a half hour but before I knew it you were lifting your head on your own, rolling from your tummy to back, rolling both ways, talking, learning to army crawl. Every time I felt like this was the day that break me you would conquer the world again.
Once you started teething, it seemed like every day was a guessing game on how your mood would be. Usually it was somewhere between upset and hysterical. I would tip toe around you like if I made a wrong move you would let out a gigantic wail. The guessing game was one of my favorites. I would start with taking off your clothes, move to burping, changing your diaper, change of toys, teething tablets, gas drops, gripe water, nap, until the decision was made that today you just felt like crying.
One time I ate cabbage. The next day was not either of our favorite day. There were many days when I would count down the hours until your Daddy got home from work. Not that I thought he would have a magic solution but rather both of us needed a break from each other. We would slip off your clothes and put you in the bathtub. As soon as you were in the bathroom you would calm down. There was something magically about the water to you. You would willing spend a half an hour kicking your legs in the water. Once you were dressed and ready for bed Daddy and I would sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle' to you, even if you were crying, you would instantly stop and smile at us.
Putting you to bed was always my favorite part of the night. Not because I was glad to be rid of you but because you would sweetly nurse yourself to sleep. It was my nightly reminder that if I felt like I had failed the rest of the day, you still needed me. After you'd been asleep awhile I snuck into your room. There I would find you swaddled in bed with your two best buds, arms in the air in surrender, as though to say "I have exhausted myself today. I give in to the calm of this night." Thankfully, once you were about three months old, you realized that everyone had a better night if you just got up to eat once or twice and then went straight to bed.
Baby Porter, the truth is that over the last 4 months I haven't felt like a very good Mommy. I haven't felt like a very good wife. I have felt like your crying was my fault. I have felt like if I could read you better we would all be more comfortable. I don't have a big life here in Spokane and that makes me feel like all my energy can go to making your life the best it possibly can be. I'm not sure if I'm doing that every day. One night when we were visiting Buffalo, your Grammy was sure to tell me that I was doing a good job. She said that I was loving and protecting and trying to figure out the best ways to do things. I think it took her telling me that for me to truly understand that every day doesn't have to be perfect in order for it to be a good day. I don't have to be perfect to be a good parent. It's okay if I need to leave and go get a coffee so that I have 20 minutes to myself.
What I can tell you baby Port, is that every day your little smile steals my breath. Some days your giggles are rare but the days that I do get them, it feels like a piece of my heart that has been empty is getting filled. I find being your Mommy the most difficult thing I have ever tried to do, and at times I don't love it, but at all times I love you and find your life to be the most fulfilling thing I have ever been a part of.
I will love you to the moon and back, little one.
Mommy
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
the fake lives we lead.
This morning an old friend reached out to me to ask me some advice on relationships. I am so glad that she did because I do believe I had valuable insight into her wonderings. There was a part of her e-mail that stood out to me. She said "In certain ways I envy your life. You look so happy and you have found the perfect husband for yourself. I struggle with so many things that look like they come naturally to you." As sweet of a compliment as this was, it was a reminder of the vast amounts of editing we do on social media. At this point social media seems to be a fill-in for real relationships, which makes it easy to forget that outlets like Facebook and Instagram are highlight reels of our friends and acquaintances' lives.
I remember several months back reading about a Dutch student who told her family she was going on vacation, hid out for five-weeks and sent them photoshopped photos of her "in Asia". She even went so far as to Skype with them with a fake scene set up behind her. (Here is an article about her if you are interested: http://www.refinery29.com/2014/09/74354/girl-photoshops-fake-vacation-facebook-pictures#slide) This seems extreme but on some scale, this is what we all do on social media. We edit our lives to the picture perfect; to the commentary that makes us look witty or worldly or funny. And although, we all know that it is what WE are doing, we never consider that's what others are doing.
When I started thinking about this all, it reminded me of going to Christian Camp and during a scavenger hunt we would get points for knowing the scripture verse John 3:15 (or maybe it was John 3:17). Does anyone truly know that verse? Even after attending that camp for 7 years, and having that question almost every year, I do not know it. There are few people that wouldn't know John 3:16. It's easy to see the thing that is constantly in front of us but not much of the context surrounding it. So tonight you will see tons of people dressed up and out at various events. There will be the selfies, photos of meals, glasses of champagne and kisses at midnight. In my experience, the people who post the most photos during their night are the people who are having the least fun because their phone is in their hand for 2.5 of the 3 hours they are out. Don't get me wrong, some people will be out having a genuinely good time. Others will be having drunken fights with their significant other that they just took a photo with or wishing they were somewhere else instead of in a loud, crowded restaurant.
I feel as though I have propagated a lie about my life across social media. I will not argue that I have found the "perfect husband for me". He is not a perfect husband, I am not a perfect wife, but we are the right pair for each other. But the fact that my friend thinks that things "come naturally" to me is laughable, especially as of late. I want to fill in the context around the pictures and statuses that so many of you see on social media. I want people to look at the good moments in my life and know that attached to those are some not so great moments. I don't say the things I am about to say for some type of sympathy, it is just one more battle for me to face, but knowing that maybe someone is out there feeling similar about their life and it would be beneficial to know that you're not the only one painting a mirage on social media.
The truth is that for most of the last three months I have been struggling with Postpartum Depression. The truth is that most days I don't shower, or get out of my pajamas, or leave the house. The truth is that every day, at least once, before ten am I say how much I hate being a parent. The truth is most days Jim takes over for a while when he gets home from work so I can just lay in bed and stare at the wall. The truth is that most days I really don't think I will survive to the next. The truth is that I find myself crying for no reason at all. The truth is I go to bed at 7:30 when Porter does. The truth is I was dealt a difficult child who cries close to 5 hours a day and I'm not sure why God thought I was strong enough for that. Most days I don't feel like myself. Most days I am selfishly mad that I don't get to do more for myself.
None of this is to say that I don't love my child and live every moment that I'm with him doing what is best for him. It doesn't mean that every moment is filled with grief, but a lot of them are. It doesn't mean that I wouldn't do it all over again if I had the chance. None of the moments I write about or post about are lies. They are just the best of the best. They are the moments that I have to cling to if I am going to make it through my day. I struggle often seeing what other people have going on in their lives. I am slowly learning that I have to assume that what other people post are also the highlights of their life. I have to believe that other people have days where everything goes wrong and have cranky babies on occasion.
I recently admitted all these sentiments to my best friend. Living so far away even she was only seeing the glimpses of my life that I wanted her to. I'm an expert at redirecting conversation or half answers. It's tough to admit sadness and defeat to someone else. With Jim I don't have to say it because he lives it with me. The day after I spoke to her I called a PPD counselor. I know I can't continue like this. I never want this to be the version of me that my son knows. Saying how I felt to someone else made it so real to me and saying it now makes it even more of a reality to me.
If anyone of my lady friends is dealing with a mental health issue, this is a great resource to get started with: http://womensmentalhealth.org
I remember several months back reading about a Dutch student who told her family she was going on vacation, hid out for five-weeks and sent them photoshopped photos of her "in Asia". She even went so far as to Skype with them with a fake scene set up behind her. (Here is an article about her if you are interested: http://www.refinery29.com/2014/09/74354/girl-photoshops-fake-vacation-facebook-pictures#slide) This seems extreme but on some scale, this is what we all do on social media. We edit our lives to the picture perfect; to the commentary that makes us look witty or worldly or funny. And although, we all know that it is what WE are doing, we never consider that's what others are doing.
When I started thinking about this all, it reminded me of going to Christian Camp and during a scavenger hunt we would get points for knowing the scripture verse John 3:15 (or maybe it was John 3:17). Does anyone truly know that verse? Even after attending that camp for 7 years, and having that question almost every year, I do not know it. There are few people that wouldn't know John 3:16. It's easy to see the thing that is constantly in front of us but not much of the context surrounding it. So tonight you will see tons of people dressed up and out at various events. There will be the selfies, photos of meals, glasses of champagne and kisses at midnight. In my experience, the people who post the most photos during their night are the people who are having the least fun because their phone is in their hand for 2.5 of the 3 hours they are out. Don't get me wrong, some people will be out having a genuinely good time. Others will be having drunken fights with their significant other that they just took a photo with or wishing they were somewhere else instead of in a loud, crowded restaurant.
I feel as though I have propagated a lie about my life across social media. I will not argue that I have found the "perfect husband for me". He is not a perfect husband, I am not a perfect wife, but we are the right pair for each other. But the fact that my friend thinks that things "come naturally" to me is laughable, especially as of late. I want to fill in the context around the pictures and statuses that so many of you see on social media. I want people to look at the good moments in my life and know that attached to those are some not so great moments. I don't say the things I am about to say for some type of sympathy, it is just one more battle for me to face, but knowing that maybe someone is out there feeling similar about their life and it would be beneficial to know that you're not the only one painting a mirage on social media.
The truth is that for most of the last three months I have been struggling with Postpartum Depression. The truth is that most days I don't shower, or get out of my pajamas, or leave the house. The truth is that every day, at least once, before ten am I say how much I hate being a parent. The truth is most days Jim takes over for a while when he gets home from work so I can just lay in bed and stare at the wall. The truth is that most days I really don't think I will survive to the next. The truth is that I find myself crying for no reason at all. The truth is I go to bed at 7:30 when Porter does. The truth is I was dealt a difficult child who cries close to 5 hours a day and I'm not sure why God thought I was strong enough for that. Most days I don't feel like myself. Most days I am selfishly mad that I don't get to do more for myself.
None of this is to say that I don't love my child and live every moment that I'm with him doing what is best for him. It doesn't mean that every moment is filled with grief, but a lot of them are. It doesn't mean that I wouldn't do it all over again if I had the chance. None of the moments I write about or post about are lies. They are just the best of the best. They are the moments that I have to cling to if I am going to make it through my day. I struggle often seeing what other people have going on in their lives. I am slowly learning that I have to assume that what other people post are also the highlights of their life. I have to believe that other people have days where everything goes wrong and have cranky babies on occasion.
I recently admitted all these sentiments to my best friend. Living so far away even she was only seeing the glimpses of my life that I wanted her to. I'm an expert at redirecting conversation or half answers. It's tough to admit sadness and defeat to someone else. With Jim I don't have to say it because he lives it with me. The day after I spoke to her I called a PPD counselor. I know I can't continue like this. I never want this to be the version of me that my son knows. Saying how I felt to someone else made it so real to me and saying it now makes it even more of a reality to me.
If anyone of my lady friends is dealing with a mental health issue, this is a great resource to get started with: http://womensmentalhealth.org
Monday, November 17, 2014
The last three months.
I was sitting in the NICU Facebook messaging with a friend when he asked me, "how do you feel after the last three months?" I didn't know how to answer that question. He volunteered a simple "well, you survived, right?" The conversation moved on and I'm sure he never thought about the conversation again but the question has been circling in my head since he asked it almost two months ago.
The "last three months" he was referring to were the wedding, cross-country move, and having a baby. I wasn't able to answer his question because I hadn't taken any time to sit down and decompress over the last three months. With so much happening at once, I had learned to look ahead rather than enjoy the moment. (You can verify this with my bridesmaids as my wedding was just a stressed, upset version of me all weekend.) I have started journal entries to turn into blogs about the last three months but only ever accomplished a sentence or two. I've never had the words and still don't.
I think the reason that the question of the last three months sticks in my head is because I don't think that I have answered the question "well, you survived, right?" I don't feel as though I have survived through those months. If you sat me down in June and asked me to describe myself it would include the words: single, runner, blogger, nanny, Buffalonian, health nut. If you asked me if any of those things held true now, the answer would be no.
I find myself completely changed by the last five months of my life. I can name the basics changes but I haven't figured out what is at the core of me. I am a mother, a wife, and a Washingtonian. I feed, change, rock to sleep and try, try, try to comfort a colicky baby. Although I wanted to stay home with Porter, I feel like I have accomplished nothing at the end of the day. I will admit to you that I spent almost 3 hours creating our Christmas cards today on Shutterfly because I knew that it is one of the only tasks that I can put a checkmark near and own as a completed project. Most days I have no doubt that I will find myself working outside the home within the year because I want to be helpful to others outside my home.
I can't rightfully say that I am a runner or even that health-minded anymore (unless you can include reading Runner's World). I look in the mirror and see stretch marks left from my sweet boy that and I can't help but be disgusted at myself. I hate the reminders on TimeHop of the healthy relationship I spent two years building with my body. I feel like I broke up with a great love of my life but with no remorse whatsoever. I can state the simple fact that I don't think I will ever run a race again. I don't know if it's the exhaustion or awkward pains from nursing, but it doesn't hurt me to say. What does hurt is the happiness that I once had at the end of a workout, or writing a blog about body image. For me, running and working out gave me obtainable goals (sure, it was wonderful getting killer abs and legs in the process). Right now, my goals are measured in getting the baby in to bed in less than an hour, taking a shower and finishing the laundry in one day.
I'll never say that I regret having a baby or that I regret moving. In the scheme of life choices, if I were to start again, I would not have chosen to do them at the same time. It hasn't left my identity much to hold on to. I used to have these dreams and desires, some were the reason that we moved out West, but I just don't find them calling to me any longer. Maybe God is preparing my heart for new dreams. I think it's okay to admit that for right now I am a little lost.
I keep wanting for a way to answer the question of "How are you feeling after all the changes in your life?" The truth is that life isn't like a book. There are no ends to chapters and neat little bows on the ends of stories. Life is a marathon with an undetermined end. Life will continue to throw changes my way. Life will continue to make me question who I am and what I stand for. My job is to live a life that is meaningful and glorifying of the one who made me. Right now, I don't know exactly what that looks like, but that doesn't mean I stop trying to figure it out.
I find myself completely changed by the last five months of my life. I can name the basics changes but I haven't figured out what is at the core of me. I am a mother, a wife, and a Washingtonian. I feed, change, rock to sleep and try, try, try to comfort a colicky baby. Although I wanted to stay home with Porter, I feel like I have accomplished nothing at the end of the day. I will admit to you that I spent almost 3 hours creating our Christmas cards today on Shutterfly because I knew that it is one of the only tasks that I can put a checkmark near and own as a completed project. Most days I have no doubt that I will find myself working outside the home within the year because I want to be helpful to others outside my home.
I can't rightfully say that I am a runner or even that health-minded anymore (unless you can include reading Runner's World). I look in the mirror and see stretch marks left from my sweet boy that and I can't help but be disgusted at myself. I hate the reminders on TimeHop of the healthy relationship I spent two years building with my body. I feel like I broke up with a great love of my life but with no remorse whatsoever. I can state the simple fact that I don't think I will ever run a race again. I don't know if it's the exhaustion or awkward pains from nursing, but it doesn't hurt me to say. What does hurt is the happiness that I once had at the end of a workout, or writing a blog about body image. For me, running and working out gave me obtainable goals (sure, it was wonderful getting killer abs and legs in the process). Right now, my goals are measured in getting the baby in to bed in less than an hour, taking a shower and finishing the laundry in one day.
I'll never say that I regret having a baby or that I regret moving. In the scheme of life choices, if I were to start again, I would not have chosen to do them at the same time. It hasn't left my identity much to hold on to. I used to have these dreams and desires, some were the reason that we moved out West, but I just don't find them calling to me any longer. Maybe God is preparing my heart for new dreams. I think it's okay to admit that for right now I am a little lost.
I keep wanting for a way to answer the question of "How are you feeling after all the changes in your life?" The truth is that life isn't like a book. There are no ends to chapters and neat little bows on the ends of stories. Life is a marathon with an undetermined end. Life will continue to throw changes my way. Life will continue to make me question who I am and what I stand for. My job is to live a life that is meaningful and glorifying of the one who made me. Right now, I don't know exactly what that looks like, but that doesn't mean I stop trying to figure it out.
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