What if it's not all about you?

It’s September 23rd. The calendar above my desk thinks it’s still August.

Hurricane Irma stole most of this month from me. We started hearing about her at the end of August and by Labor Day we knew she was coming for Florida. We evacuated to Georgia on the 7th, she hit on the 10th, we came back on the 14th. I was on high alert the entire time but I feel like I’m just starting to wake up.

If you follow me on Instagram or Facebook you saw my attempts at documenting our story. I also shared about evacuating on Sarasota Mom’s Blog.

I’ve always believed that God led us to this place at this time for a reason. How else do you explain moving to a place where you know no one and have no rational excuse to do so? From the time I came home from work and said, “Let’s do this,” to the way our house sold in one day, to the fast connections we made when we got here, I knew that we were doing what we were meant to. But I always thought it was for us, for me. The first 22 days of September have shown me how wrong I was.

There was a point as the hurricane was getting close to making landfall and I was tired of being anxious and scared. Instead I got angry. Why would God bring us to this place only to put us in the path of a storm like this? Why did we give up everything in Colorado to come here and possibly lose even more? We had come here to reset, to heal, to grow and now all of that was being tested. It didn’t take long for Him to answer, “What if it’s not all about you?” Oh, ok then.

After we got home, took care of the leak from the bedroom window, did laundry, cleaned out the refrigerator, and tried to get back into our normal, we started hearing about those that may not have a normal for a long, long time. Homes that had been flattened or flooded, possessions destroyed, jobs and businesses lost. The poorest among us that were already living with next to nothing now literally have nothing.

The stories keep coming. This video broke me wide open yesterday. Before the hurricane I was crying for myself, now I’m crying for them. And now I know what He meant. We did come here for ourselves, but He knew better. We are here for this. For the help we can provide and for the work he’s doing in our hearts.

The Beginning and End of Crib Season

I snagged my son’s crib off a listing on Craigslist.

It was an Ikea one, simple but sturdy, and came with the mattress. All for $40. I stood in the Craigslist stranger’s garage, surrounded by other outgrown baby gear and two kids who rode their bikes in and out without much regard for who was in the way. The original owner told me how to put it together, and as I handed her the money and put the pieces in my Jeep, I wondered if she was sad to be giving up this season of her motherhood. On the outside she didn’t seem to be. She seemed relieved that it was going, making space for the next one.  

Like many naïve first time moms, I thought that crib would be used right away.

Read more at Sarasota Moms Blog. 

Pieces

I search through the pieces 

Trying to find the whole

The broken outnumber the perfect 

Once all the same 

Jagged edges and reshaped lines

Reveal their true beauty 

34

I remember when I was twelve and approaching my thirteenth birthday. I was SO excited to turn thirteen. I would finally be a teenager and imagined how cool and different it would be when I wasn’t a “kid” anymore. Of course all thirteen got me was an awkward body and middle school. I don’t recall being that excited about a birthday since (well except maybe for twenty-one).

Today I turned thirty-four and my husband said something that has made me want to rethink how I approach birthdays. He asked me if birthdays even feel like birthdays anymore. They definitely don’t feel like they did when I was younger and even if we celebrate with dinner or an event the anticipation that I felt when I was little just isn't there. This could just be the nature of getting older, but what if I could recapture even a bit of it?

I’m going to start by making a list of what I’m excited about in my next year of life. I’m excited about doing more writing and seeing where that goes. I’m excited about exploring parts of Florida that I haven’t been too yet. I’m excited about opportunities at work and work travel. I’m excited about friendships that are growing deeper. I’m excited (and terrified) to see my son as a three year old.

What are some things you’re looking forward to about your next birthday?

Corner Man

Some days I don't want to go to the fight. We've seen this opponent before. He's bigger, stronger, unforgiving, and lethal.

But I go because you are my fighter and I am your corner man. 

I tape you up and put on your gloves. I say a prayer. You are shaking and unsure. There is fear in your eyes, but I try not to let you see the fear in mine.

The fight starts and he has you against the ropes. I feel every punch, every cut, every breath he knocks out of your lungs. He wins the first round.

I wipe the sweat and blood from your face. I bandage up the cuts and tell you, you can do it. You say you don't know how. Please God, I pray, please give him strength.

The round starts and again he overcomes you. He is beating the life out of you. There is nothing I can do but watch. Round two is over. You are bruised, bloodied, torn.

Round three. This is it. You are exhausted and he knows it. He has worn you down and now goes for the kill. He has you on your knees. The ref is counting you out. You look at me and I see you want to give up. Please God, give him strength. You stand and face him.

There is new life in you and you start fighting back. Now you are the one on the offense. Round after round you keep fighting. He isn’t giving up, but now you know his moves. You intercept his next attempt. With one last blow you knock him out. 

You raise your hands in victory.

You are my fighter and I am your corner man. 

Blinking

With every blink

Tick of the clock

Inch you grow

Time is taking you away from me

And me from you

Two blinks ago you were

Laying on my chest

Our souls merging

To the rhythm of sunrises

And sunsets

A blink ago you were

Crawling into the future

Dragging my heart with you

To the place

Where time stands still

In the next blink you will be

Walking into the unknown

Leaving me behind

Standing in the shadows

Blinking

Riding the Wave

The gulf isn’t known for it’s waves. You won’t find any surfer dudes down here, just tourists on floaties and locals stroking by in their stand up paddle board clubs. But recently when we went to the beach and heard the waves breaking from the parking lot, we knew some decent swells awaited us. As we stepped off the boardwalk and onto the white, shimmering sand, we could see that the crests were several feet high.

M took to the ocean the first time he met it at a year and a half old. We took him out to the beach the day we moved here, and I saw him fall in love as he touched the sand, first with just a finger tip and then his whole, chubby hand, and let the water kiss his toes. A year and some months after that first encounter, he rarely hesitates to get in.

This day was different. I’m sure a lot of it had to do with the intensity of the waves, but his fear was evident as he stayed on dry sand. Now almost three, he’s at an age where fear is starting to creep into his life more and more. At bedtime he tells me he doesn’t want the dark in his room and so he has two night lights and the door stays open until he falls asleep. Scary characters on TV elicit a “Don’t like that mommy,” and he sees imaginary monsters hiding around the corner.

  

As he starts to understand more of the world around him, he also starts to lose the sacred ignorance I wish he could keep. 

So how can I help him navigate his fears?

Acknowledge and asses the fear. The waves were high and the noise of the force of the water hitting land was loud. The usually clear water was dark and the ocean floor was hidden. M’s fear was legitimate and he didn't know what to do with it. He turned from the water's edge and ran back to the safety of my arms. I told him it’s ok to feel afraid, but that the waves on this day, while unusual, were not too big for him to deal with.

Show the way. M saw other kids playing in the water and his Dad walk out first. Ryan encouraged M to follow, splashing the water and joyfully jumping into the rolling waves. Then, when M was still unsure, Ryan carried him out and held him as the ocean broke over them both and patiently waited until M had enough confidence to stand by himself.

Praise for overcoming. Soon M was facing the waves on his own. He saw one building, knew it was coming, and instead of turning away he jumped into it. He came to shore, sand and a smile plastered to his face. “I rode the wave, mama!” “Yes you did buddy,” I replied as I wrapped him in a salty hug, “You did so good!”

Overcoming fear isn’t unique to the little ones, and as an adult I often find myself in similar situations. My fears look different than his (although I don’t always like big waves or scary monsters either) but they can be tackled in the same way. When I’m dealing with a fear I need to figure out if it’s a warning or a hindrance. Is it protecting me from an unsafe situation, or is it keeping me from an experience that could be perfectly harmless? I need to find someone that’s been there before. Sometimes I need others to show me the way first, and I might need to be carried for a while until my legs feel strong enough to carry myself. And I need to know I did good. When I am recognized for accomplishing something despite my fears, I have faith that I can do it again.

There have been a few more big wave days since that time and M has continued to conquer his fear. Now when he knows we’re headed to the beach, he fearlessly claims that he’s going to ride all the waves. 

Mama Power

"His love for me, reflected in his eyes and bubbling over in his laugh, is one of his many superpowers. My love for him is my mama power."

My mini essay on Mama Power was published as part of Tribe Magazine's Power in Motherhood series.

Making a Mess

This month’s theme in The Year of Creativity is Perspective and we’ve been talking a lot about making messes in our writing. In my perfectionist, Type A world, messes and writing shouldn’t be in the same sentence. I was never allowed to make a mess with writing. There have always been rules, guidelines, a wrong way and right way. Grammar, spelling, sentence structure, and two spaces after a period. Book reports and research papers had specific formats that were expected to be followed. Even through my college Literature classes every sentence was painfully thought out and researched to perfection.

I never gave myself permission to make a mess.

I’m realizing that this is why it took me so long to start writing. I was always afraid of the jumble of words not coming out sounding or looking right. I thought they needed to be perfect the first time they left my mind, but of course they don’t.

So since this truth bomb was dropped on me earlier this month, I’ve been making messes all over the place. I’m experimenting with styles and perspectives. I’m writing with an actual pen and paper. I’m trying not to think about what’s coming out...and just letting it come.

It’s not all pretty and some of it may end up deleted, in the trash, burned, or buried. It would be easy for me to say that what comes out of the trash is what’s important, but I think what’s in the trash is equally so. If I’m not willing to make a mess, there’s a chance I could miss a lot of good stuff.

For some inspiration on how to get messy in your writing, art, work, or life in general check out these articles:

The Importance of Play: On Finding Joy In Your Writing Practice

3 Activities to Play with When Perfectionism Stalls Your Project

Reclaim Your Creative Confidence

A Collection of Short Poems

I hold strong⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

But not too tight⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

Letting you tell me⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

When it's time⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

To let go a little more⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

Letting you tell me⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

When you are ready⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

To catch the wind⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

And fly⠀

_________________________

Blue eyes so young and deep

Full of life and hope 

Still undimmed by hurt

I wish I could keep them that way⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

Blue eyes so young and deep

Full of promise and future 

Still learning about what you see

I wish I could capture it all⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

Blue eyes so young and deep

_________________________

Inbetween the days, we grow⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

Inbetween the nights, we change⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

Inbetween the smiles, we remember ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

Inbetween the cries, we learn ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

In-between the bruises, we get stronger⠀⠀⠀ 

Inbetween it all, we love

To the Toddler Mom in the Deep End

Hey you, yeah you, the mama over there with the toddler that just got out of the pool and is running for the exit. I see you. I see you chasing him and telling him he can’t leave without you. I see you as he yells and twists out of your grasp until you’re just hanging on to a kicking leg. I see the anger and desperation in your eyes.

I see you.

For you motherhood was like stepping into a slightly chilly pool. Uncomfortable and unknown at times, but you always stayed where you could touch. Your head was always above the water and postpartum was more of a high than a low. You loved being a mom from day one and even though there were a few waves in the beginning the waters soon smoothed and warmed. Your baby adjusted effortlessly through developmental stages and you didn’t really relate to the mom-talk of regressions and overwhelming sleep deprivation. For a good two years you floated along with a smile on your face and a tiny bit of a chip on your shoulder. Maybe you just got lucky or maybe God had mercy on you because he knew what was coming.

Toddlerhood threw you right in the deep end where the warm water has turned to ice. You are flailing and choking and you can’t get a grip on the edge. You weren’t ready for the battle of wills, the screaming, and the talking back. You don’t know how to respond when he won’t follow a simple command like putting on his clothes. He wants to brush his teeth himself but gets mad at you when he can’t get the cap off of the toothpaste. When you give him the wrong cup at dinner he acts like you killed the dog. He uses the toilet at school but refuses to even sit on the one at home.  “Because I don’t want to” is his favorite phrase and you’re tempted to have it tattooed on him. You’re not confident in your discipline methods because nothing seems to work. He can sense this weakness and so he doesn’t take you seriously. You resort to having your partner be the bad guy. You feel inadequate and it’s pulling you under.

I see you and you’re not alone. I’m here too.

So what do we do? We remember that the little terrors we see in front of us today were not always and will not always be. We try to think about how the world looks to them as they try to figure out. We give them the space, options, and tools they need to express themselves. We hold on tight to the sweet moments, like when they tell you about their day in their two-year old vocabulary, give you an unexpected kiss, or laugh hysterically at something you never thought was funny before.

We can claw our way out together. I’ll give you a boost and you can pull me up. Rumor is that moms do survive this, and they’re waiting for us under the umbrellas with words of encouragement, war stories, and wine.