On failure. Again.

If I could use a word to describe the past three years of my life, my initial response would be "stress." Stress has been the monumental figure in my life; I'm constantly trying to dance around it, and avoid it until I'm forced to confront it.  And the confrontations are always brutal.

The second word I would come to, is "failure."  I have been far too acquainted with this word over the years; a little over a year ago I applied to a job I was sure I was destined to get.  I applied, immediately got rejected, and applied again, only to be rejected again.  The institution was doing a mass hiring event, and I resolved to go anyway - never mind my two rejected applications - to present myself as one of the 100 candidates they were going to hire that day.  I curled my hair while sobbing as I watched inspiring clips of Will Smith dialogues from, 'The Pursuit of Happiness,' I told my roommates that I was coming home with this job because "I claimed it, it's mine!" And left, with the conviction that if I willed it, it was mine.   (I have read 'The Alchemist,' about a hundred times too many).

A few hours later, I returned home (after returning the suit jacket I had bought to interview in that couldn't afford) without even making it into an interview.

And then there's the failures that happen daily: the failures that every mother feels when they wonder if they are doing enough to ensure that their kid turns out to be a good person.  The failures of knowing your kid doesn't get enough vegetables, or that you don't have enough patience with your child, or knowing that your kid watches too much TV.

The failures of building relationships and maintaining relationships.  The failure you meet after you follow a dream, only to discover that your dreams has changed by the time you start to open the door.   The long list of failures that are universally felt, as well as the ones unique to only ourselves.

But tonight, I was driving home- dreaming up new opportunities and dreams- ones that could very well turn into next years failures- but I can't feel anything but gratefulness and humility at the thought of them.

my ugly pile of stress and failures and shortcomings- is starting to look more like the foundation of a house from a blueprint that I haven't been given the right to see yet.

I am thankful that the tearful moments of stress have turned into a boxing ring of resilience.

I am thankful that my rejections have tested the endurance of my hope,
And trained me to turn my "no's" into "not yet's."

I am thankful that when I thought I was cornered, I was told to dig,
And the times that I dug so much I reached the water, I had someone from the other side throw me a rope and told me to climb.

I am certain this is all making into a better woman.

I will end this with the inscription found on Rumi's tomb, which I find to be both beautiful and fitting:

"[...]Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vows
a thousand times.
Come, yet again, come, come."

Trying to fit into the shell of who i used to be. Part 1.

you get a strange feeling

when you’re about to leave a place

I told him, like you’ll not only miss the people you love

but you’ll miss the person you are now at this time

and this place, because you’ll never be this way ever again.

                           

[Reading Lolita in Tehran] 

After having a kid, it is pretty common for one to lose a sense of self.  I sat with a friend last night, drinking a girly adult drink, sadly giggling while reminiscing over how "we used to be so fun."  It's a very common theme among my friends these days. it's not that we're not fun, its just that the meaning of fun goes through a little evolution process when you have someone other than yourself you have to care for 24/7.  

We opted on a late showing of the movie, 'Bad Moms,' (how fitting) and had serious reservations over whether we would be passed out before the movie actually played: Mom Life. 

Masking serious doubts  with smiles, I conceded that I felt as if I were the shell of someone I used to be. It's an odd feeling to be in my later 20's (26 to be exact) mirroring the same questions about my identity that I went through a decade ago.  I once lived my life with such confidence.  Though often penniless, I often felt a sense of power merely for existing and being in a place of my choosing. I might not have felt beautiful, but the absence of the standard of beauty placed on me by society didn't burden me.  I might not have felt good enough, but inadequacy wasn't a haunting figure looming over me on a day to day basis, with Elmo songs as the background music.  

This isn't actually all just babble, did you know a woman's brain actually changes when they become a mother? neurologists have discovered that, "Even before a woman gives birth, pregnancy tinkers with the very structure of her brain [...] After centuries of observing behavioral changes in new mothers, scientists are only recently beginning to definitively link the way a woman acts with what's happening in her prefrontal cortex, midbrain, parietal lobes, and elsewhere. Gray matter becomes more concentrated. Activity increases in regions that control empathy, anxiety, and social interaction. On the most basic level, these changes, prompted by a flood of hormones during pregnancy and in the postpartum period, help attract a new mother to her baby. In other words, those maternal feelings of overwhelming love, fierce protectiveness, and constant worry begin with reactions in the brain." (Adrienne LaFrance) - it only makes sense that when neurological changes like that takes place, it would shake a person from their core, even without their routine being disrupted.   

I remember reading about the ship of Theseus years ago in my Greek Mythology class in college.  Plutarch wrote extensively on it- essentially, Theseus, the king of Athens, and a bunch of youth from Athens traveled from Crete- and the ship was preserved for years and years after, while constantly being replaced with new timber as the planks would decay.  Eventually, the ship of Theseus was gradually replaced piece by piece, over time.   The ship of Theseus was referred to as the "Theseus paradox" eventually, because it posed the question- if all the components of an object (or person) are changed, is it still the same? 

Herein lies my doubts: now that Mother is the front runner of my identity, is this just a component of my identity or does my personhood fall under the shadow of this? There has been a lot of reluctance from me in my parenting journey, to embrace what is in front of me, when I have been mourning the life that is behind me.  I don't know why change and growth is met with such resistance.  Maybe the great problem in all of this, is that I am the one who has refused to change though circumstance and opportunity have demanded that I do so.   

Perhaps I only lack perspective.  In the midst of the redundancy of mundane tasks, it's often impossible to see where any glory could possibly be found.  

I want to contribute to great change in the world, but I am consumed with cleaning dishes, trying to not be late, and constantly trying to remedy the fact that I've ran out of milk and diapers- again.  

I want to  spew out poetry and write meaningful things, but I can't even remember to write down doctor appointments.

  I want to feel beautiful again, but im also trying to teach my son that even though the body is a temple, wrapping paper always gets thrown away and a persons beauty has nothing to do with symmetry on a face or a number on a scale and to believe otherwise is toxic.  

so this is where I'm at, today.  I've labeled this part 1, because I know this is just the beginning of this thought.
I'm sorry to finish this so abruptly, and that I can't finish this off with an anecdotal story or resolution today.   I'm writing this out so I can process this, and I'm nowhere near ready to figure this out.  But, I will post updates as they come.   If this comes across as depressing- I'm sorry, I assure you that I am not depressed, I'm just trying to be transparent. 

Praise for the Oversharenting Parent.

(I wrote this about a week ago in response to this article- but thought I'd share here)

Dear Jade Ruthven,

I wanted to drop a line and tell you how happy I am that you love your baby so much.  In a world full of disagreements, petty arguments, celebrity worship, hateful politics, parenting faux pas, and general disregard for other people’s feelings, I wanted to let you know how refreshing it is to see a mother so enthralled in her baby, that she can’t help but scream it out to social media.  If you had a mountain readily accessible to you, I know you’d be on it screaming.  I know, because I’d be on it too.  Like you, I am guilty of oversharenting.  Even on the bad days, like today, when my car repair man called to tell me my car was done forever, or last week when my ex got engaged, or the day I brought my baby home and didn’t think I could do this parenting thing all by myself: in those moments, I still would have climbed that mountain and screamed my love out from it.  We’re the kind of people that wake up in the morning, surprised at the amount of love we have left in us despite the way the world desperately tries to suck it out.

Jade, I do not believe that there is a limit to how much we’re supposed to love people, especially the ones we make.  The first time they handed me my baby, I swore up and down I could never love anyone that much ever again.  I’ve been breaking that promise every day I’ve been blessed to wake up, since. 

Perhaps technology just hasn’t caught up to us, yet. We’re the kind of people that, years ago, would have carried pictures in our wallets, pulling them out and trading them empathetically like baseball cards with our neighbors. While exchanging stories of our loved ones, inside were secretly and impatiently waiting for our turn to speak (not necessarily to brag, but) to remind the universe that despite our existence full of microwaveable meals, depressing news segments, reality TV and broken down cars, our children are something to be proud about.

That’s something worth sharing.

Cheers,

Abigail (a fellow over-sharing parent)

Maxwell's baby dedication letter. 2/8/15

Dear Max,

Tomorrow is your baby dedication and I am supposed to write to you a letter with a vision of the kind of person I hope you will be at 18, or when you become a man.  I honestly don't even know where to begin... But we have to start somewhere!

I have tethered so many hopes and dreams on to you, that sometimes I fear they will either carry you away, or they will weigh you down.  I hope to do neither.


 I have so many dreams for you that I cannot possibly write them all down, but my biggest wish is that you come to know the endless, depthless love of our Savior.

I hope that over the time God has placed us to be in each others lives, I prove to be an example of this love, over and over again. I hope that together we can practice this love with our family, our friends, our community.




I pray that you grow up to be a man of character.
 A man who fears God.
A man that loves people deeply.
A man with strong convictions.
I pray that receive you the wisdom that is offered to us all,
 but overlooked by so many.

I pray that you never question your identity.  You are wanted, you are important, and you have been called.  Before you were even born, God used your life to change mine, and I am forever grateful to you for being that vessel.

I hope that you grow up to know that your mother loves you, has always loved you, and will always love you very very much.  But this love pales in comparison to the love your father has for you.

Your father, the father that calls all of us to into being,

planned for you (Psalm 139:13),

has plans for you (Jeremiah 17:9),

desires to know you (1 John 4:10),

and he will never abandon you (Deuteronomy 31:6).

I pray that you as you grow up, you hunger for this relationship with your heavenly father, and know that it is the only thing in this world that truly matters. We will never lack anything if we have Him.

Maxwell,
I promise to do my best to raise you according to truth given to me in scripture, and know that God will take over from there. I thank God for entrusting me to be your mom every day. Being you mother has been the richest human experience of my life,

You are my joy and I love you so much. 

SURVIVAL

by Caitlyn Siehl

This is how we survive: 

We survive. 

I have learned that there aren't tricks

for breaking the fingers

of the things that choke us in our sleep.

There aren't remedies that take away

heartache without the word "time"

written sympathetically across our therapist's face. 

We survive by surviving.

We do it unconsciously, 

the way our bodies remember to

breathe, even when we're asleep.

The first step is always deciding

to take the first step.

The second step is miserable

and we usually trip down the stairs, 

then wait months before climbing back

and starting again.

What I'm trying to say is, be patient.

What I'm trying to say is, I don't have the answers.
my bones tell me to sing when I'm lonely, so I do.

I sing and I don't think of him or his hands.

On days when everything feels

like a eulogy, walk slowly, and don't wear black.

Don't let this be a funeral.

Teach yourself to navigate the wound

and take note of all the places

you see along the way, like the park bench

with your initials carved into it, 

or the weeping willow that is tired of crying. 

There will be months that try to swallow

you whole, with fangs that pierce your chest

like a bullet.  Look for the exit wound.

Look for the Hallelujah chorus

at the other end of your skin.

It has come and gone and now everything

is a symphony.

"I pray for more reckless, pure passion that ferociously beats against our walls – swoops in and captures us. And we wake every morning to give more of ourselves, and, in turn, receive the reward of watching abundant life swallow everything that has to die to loose the freedom we were made for." - Taryn Phaneuf

new beginnings:

I've been wanting to put my experience of pregnancy, birth, motherhood into words for months now, but for the first time in my life I realized I was going through something I couldn't find the words to express it all.  But this is how I process things, at least this is the first step of processing things usually, get it out and sort through it later, so here goes nothing. 

Becoming a mother has been the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. And I don't say that lightly..I've had some pretty challenging experiences in my day.  Motherhood seems to be the most paradoxical happening that can grip a person's life.  It is the most beautiful transformation to take over someone (and people will tell you over and over throughout your pregnancy that, "its a beautiful thing!" usually when their hand is on top of your bulging belly), yet the reality seems anything but beautiful as it screams, "I haven't showered in three days," or when you realize you're spending the majority of your life in your pajamas and probably even in your bed, but you still have bags under your eyes, or when you're sobbing alongside your sweet, beautiful and perfect baby-- that, at the moment, at 3:am, is kind of making your life a little hellish. The reality is stretch marks, loose skin, a scar or a marred body that despite your best efforts- will never be "the same as it use to be." 
The reality is exhaustion. And yet somehow, in spite of itself, yields incandescent bliss. 
 It is the most rewarding thing I have ever gone through and every day I wake up, I, like every other mother in the world, convince myself that I love my child more than anyone has ever loved another person before. 

I never really had any intentions of being a mother.  In  my more day-dreamy moments I had hoped to be a mother one day (at least another 5 years down the road) because I knew were I to have a child, they would be the love of my life, but I definitely did not expect to be where I currently am:  Raising a baby alone, inhabiting that awkward space within my circle of friends, where half of my friends are single, and the other half are moms like me, but going home to a husband instead of an empty bed.


I could write about how hard it is all day... the unsolicited comments and advice, the judgement (its going to happen no matter what you're doing), the loneliness, the doubt - "am I an okay mother?"or  "I feel like I must be doing something wrong, am I doing something wrong?" and "are they supposed to smell like that?!" 
But I could write about how great it is for even longer, and I've been told I haven't even hit the good stages yet.  (Okay, I'll list a few since I just have to =) ) the moment I met my sweet Max the first time. the gassy smiles. The first bath. The moment his umbilical cord fell off and I yelled "Finally, thank God!" (and then cried because 'he's getting older!'), the sleepy smiles. the happy-just got fed- version of baby. The first time I realized that I look at Max all day, and still somehow manage, every single time, to think:
He's mine. I can't believe he's mine. 

The greatest gift motherhood has given me has been that it constantly shows me how desperately I need my savior, how desperately I need something much bigger than I to rely on. Circumstances dictate that I do this alone, but I know better- I know that I can't. 
I know that I'm nowhere near the woman and mother I want and need to be for my son, and that the biggest thing separating me from this self- is my (wounded but resilient) pride.  I know that in order to be free of myself, God is going to break me, and it is going to hurt. So in all of the hardships now, I find myself praying that he do just that; break me, mend me, break me again.  none of the hardships or pain or regrets go wasted, everything He uses to show He has a plan that I can't even imagine right now. My friend posted this the other day, and I really love this quote from it, I believe it sums up motherhood so eloquently: 

"Motherhood teaches women the imagery and language of the gospel on an intensely personal level. How appropriate the intertwined imagery of childbirth and the Cross: the necessary spilling of blood for the commencement of life, great loss holding hands with great gain. "

So here's to new beginnings: 
the kind I've been given to wake up every morning to. 


"And He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in your weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”