Cleaning Out the Closet

I've been holding on to pre-baby clothes (from the thinnest period of my life) for five years. Five. Freaking. Years.

At first, I was hopeful to be back in them by the time my oldest was a year old. Then I was pregnant with my second...and now he's almost three and I'm at the heaviest weight I've ever been. 

I'm working on that. But it's tough feeding myself well and squeezing in exercise with two little ones who require so much attention and love and care--all of which I want to heap on them every available minute. So getting my body healthy and strong again is a process and I'm trying to be positive about it. 

Still, every time I opened my closet (or even thought about it because I knew the clothes were in there) I felt miserable. I felt angry and upset with myself. I felt sad that I'm not able to wear those clothes, because I really loved some of them.

For some reason, though, today I decided it was time to change that. I suddenly felt like it was time to let those clothes go.

So with my boys' help, I pulled out every last piece of "skinny" clothing and packed it into a box for Goodwill or set it aside to sell. It was a little like a funeral, saying goodbye to all those dresses and shirts I loved. But it was also cathartic. It was like I was releasing all the negative feelings I had been holding in. 

I feel like I can finally move forward instead of dwelling in the past. And that feels pretty amazing.

Mirror, Mirror

object mirror object by Emilie is licensed under CC BY 2.0

I've never been a fan of the mirror. Even at my thinnest, I wasn't one to spend much time checking my reflection. But in the last few weeks I've realized that for months (maybe even years) I've been avoiding the mirror.

I don't know when I stopped looking in the mirror. It wasn't a conscious decision. It just happened. My mirror avoidance developed as quickly and quietly as the pounds packed on.

Of course I glance at my face as I wash or apply lotion. I sometimes check my outfit to make sure there aren't any hand prints or stains on my clothes. But I won't linger. I won't really LOOK at my reflection.

Why? What am I afraid of?

I'm afraid of the thoughts that might arise as I scan my body, recognizing curves that have become rounder and fuller than they were a few years ago. I'm ashamed and embarrassed by what my body has become.

I know that's not what I'm supposed to think. I know it's not how I'm supposed to feel about this body that has created life, that has carried me through challenges and adventures and tragedies alike. I know I'm supposed to love my body just as it is. But right now, I just can't. Or at least until now, I haven't been able to.

Today, I stood in front of the mirror before I got into the shower. I looked--really looked--at my body. This is what I saw: a round face that looks tired but happy; shoulders that keep creeping up toward my ears instead of relaxing down my back; a chest that is rounder and hangs lower than ever before; a belly that droops over a long scar, hiding the evidence that babies formed and grew inside me; thighs that overlap and rub against one another; ankles that are like tree trunks and feet that are wide and flat from years of bearing the weight above them.

This is all what IS. I'm doing my best not to judge it. It is my body after growing two healthy boys. It is my body after several years of stress, overwhelm, poor eating, lack of exercise and minimal self-care. This is where I am now. It does not have to be where I end up.

I worry, though, that I've let things go too far. I fear I've forgotten how to be healthy. I wonder if there's really time and energy to take care of myself, to plan healthy meals (and cook them), to exercise and practice yoga on more than an occasional basis.

I still have to try. My body is begging me. I feel so heavy and uncomfortable. I lack energy and I'm irritable. I realize I can't change what has already happened. I can only change what I do and feel from here forward.

And so today I choose to go to the gym. Today I choose to eat healthier than yesterday. Today I choose to stand in front of the mirror and look at my body without judgement.

With each day, hopefully, I can rebuild those healthier habits. I can do one thing to take care of myself. I can learn to look in the mirror and see my body through a lens of appreciation again, no matter what the scale says and no matter what size my pants are.

I will do my best today. That's all I can do.

Bifocals

Things have started getting pretty blurry. It happened slowly, so I didn't really even notice. Then one day, after cussing out my contacts for not working, it occurred to me that my vision just might have changed over the last...has it really been 5 years since my last eye exam???

I sat in the chair while the eye doctor prepared to check my vision, and without my contacts in I couldn't even read the lowest line of letters projected onto the wall in front of me. I'd been living my life with blurry vision for YEARS without even noticing. Or rather, without paying any attention.

As the doctor flipped through the levels of correction and answered "Better or worse?" over and over again, things began to get clearer. I could again see the clean edges of the letters in front of me. I could identify all the letters on the smallest of lines.

When he was finished, the doctor rolled his chair to his desk and began typing notes into his computer. Then he turned to me and said, "Well, you need bifocals."

I must have had a shocked look on my face, because he quickly added, "It usually happens around 40. You only need a very low magnification. Look for +1.00 reading glasses to use when you're wearing your contacts. You can get them at any drug store these days."

As I ordered my new frames and lenses, the salesman asked if I'd like "progressives" or traditional lenses with the line. "No line, please. I'd like to at least pretend I don't need bifocals."

He gave me an obligatory chuckle and wrote up my order. I obviously wasn't the first one to say such a thing.

A week later, wearing my new progressive (ha!) glasses, things are a little wobbly. I'm adjusting to a visual field that changes magnification with the movement of my eyes. I almost fell down the stairs the other day, because my depth perception was a bit off as I looked down through the "reading" portion of my lenses.

If I forget I'm wearing them and tip my head up as I'm looking toward the distance, things become blurry and distorted and my head begins to hurt. But if I tip my head down and gaze through the tops of the lenses, things become clear again, better defined. I can't help wondering if getting these progressive lenses is a reminder that there are different ways to look at the world. Maybe they're reteaching me that what we see in front of us varies depending on what angle we use to look at it.

Maybe wearing bifocals isn't such a bad thing after all. Maybe it's just the vision adjustment I needed to start seeing things clearly again.

The WHENs and the NOWs

"Clock" by Dineshraj Goomany is licensed under CC BY 2.0.
 

A short time ago, an internet friend sent me a link to an essay she'd tried to read. "This essay is SO DREADFUL," she said. "Can you believe she's a published author?"

After reading the essay (all of it) myself, I sent her a note back. It hadn't seemed THAT dreadful to me. I had, in fact, been able to connect with the writer through her essay, but only after I pushed through a flowery beginning and waded through some roughly worded paragraphs to get to the point: Motherhood is hard and sometimes we need a break, even if that break isn't doing what we'd really love to be doing. At least that's the point I took away from it. (This may say more about where I'm at in my life than about the author's intent and skill, though.)

As I responded to my friend, I found myself thinking a thought I'd had plenty of times before. If this author could publish such a poorly written essay, why can't I get published?

The answer wasn't far behind: Because you're not writing.

That's not entirely true. I have a couple of freelance jobs going, but they're more editing and formatting than writing. I'm writing this blog post--right here, right now. And I'm always jotting notes for the books and stories and essays I want to write WHEN. You know: WHEN.

WHEN I have time.

WHEN the kids are older.

WHEN I'm not so tired.

WHEN the house is clean.

WHEN I'm a better writer.

I know you have them, too. They may not be the same as mine, but I'm sure you have your own WHENs. WHENs are those things that hold us back before we even get started. They give us room to wait, when what we really need to be doing is plowing forward, pushing the WHENs to the side and experiencing the NOWs.

When I sit down to write, finally taking advantage of one of the many short-but-quiet moments life lends me each day, I realize there are NOWs waiting for me.

NOW this feels right.

NOW I have so many stories to tell.

NOW I can write while the kids are napping.

NOW I don't care if the house is clean.

NOW I'm a writer.

The words flow and the negative Inner Editor quiets down, if only for a few minutes. I put words to page and feel that rush of relief and the peace of knowing I'm doing what makes me alive, happy, full.

I realize in those moments that the WHENs are just excuses to stay stuck in the daily grind, in the self-doubt and discontent. Once I start writing despite the WHENs, I find the NOWs were waiting for me all along.

What are your WHENs? How can you move into the NOW?

Confessions of a Terrible Mother

I have something to admit. Something I hate to even type, much less say out loud. Being the perfectionist that I am, I can barely bring myself to think it. But here it is:

Some days I wonder if I was really meant to be a mother. 

There. I said it. 

For as long as I can remember I've wanted to be a mom. I have never imagined my future without children, a family. And yet some days, when I'm losing my patience and nearing my boiling point with my spirited (read: stubborn, smart, challenging) toddler, I wonder if I was really cut out for the job I so willingly took on. 

Maybe I've made plans to hit the playground and story time at the library, but it's 2 PM and I have yet to get myself dressed after a morning of time-outs. Maybe I woke up with the goal of (finally) getting the laundry washed and folded, but am climbing into bed without even washing my hair much less the mountains of dirty clothes that just keep growing. 

Days like these (and oh-so-many other examples) make me feel like a complete failure as a mother. The voice in my head tells me I should be able to do it all, to keep the house running, keep the kids fed and entertained, keep it all together. But almost every day I go to bed reciting a mental list of all the thing I did wrong--or didn't do at all. 

I try to remind myself that I'm only one person. I listen as Hubby tells me I'm doing fine, doing all I can. Still the voice needles me, telling me I can--and should--be doing better. 

"Your toddler doesn't listen to a word you say. You need to teach him to be obedient," it says.  

"You didn't do the dishes today? Tomorrow you have to wash them and put them away."

"Why can't you make time for your writing? If you really wanted it you'd find the time."

Over and over these thoughts run through my head and I start to feel overwhelmed and under-accomplished. I wonder how someone who wanted something so badly could be so utterly terrible at it. 

And then my toddler comes over to me and says, "Snuggle the mommy," asking to curl up with me for some cuddle time. He kisses me and tells me he loves me and holds my hand and I realize I can't be as terrible as I think I am at this parenting thing. I do the best I'm able to do, and at the end of the day that's what matters. 

Am I going to mess something up every day: get angry, skip chores, fail at being perfect. Absolutely. But as I snuggle up with my toddler I realize I'm not messing up nearly as badly as that voice in my head wants me to believe.

On Passion and Purpose

Today I watched delightedly (and belatedly) while Damaris Phillips cried tears of joy as she was named this season's Food Network Star. I'm a sucker for these types of competition shows, be it Cupcake Wars or Design Star or, back in the earlier seasons, American Idol. I love a good competition and, finally, I've figured out why.

There's a passion and dedication that oozes out of the competitors. Each person who has made it to the televised competition has convinced judges that they have what it takes to be a star. Their love of what they do shines and drives them to be the best, to make their dreams come true.

That passion inspires me. Seeing people pursue what they love publicly, with as much effort and commitment as they possibly can makes me want to do the same. But sometimes it makes me check myself.

Could I leave my family for weeks at a time in order to get a job done? Could I stay up late every night, knowing I'd only get a couple of hours of sleep, so that I could develop ideas and work on manuscripts? Could I choose my writing over my friendships and marriage? Should I? Do I have to? Do I want to?

These questions run through my head all the time. Especially now that my free time, my writing time, is so very, very limited. I spend so little time writing these days that I wonder: Do I have the passion that I need to write the stories that are brewing inside me every day? Is it really my purpose to do so?

And then I sit down at my computer on the rare occasion that I have set aside some writing time, and the words start to flow. The ideas percolate and they spill out onto the page. I may not get much done, but that feeling of fervor, of desire and NEED, bubbles up inside of me and I think, "Yes. I have the passion. This IS my purpose."

Even when I'm not writing--when my days have become so full of diaper changes, baby play, and household chores that I'm way too exhausted to squeeze in even the tiniest bit of writing--that passion lingers. My spirit knows my purpose and I crave the opportunity to boot up the computer and put words together to make sentences that flow into paragraphs filled with meaning, paragraphs that pile up into stories that will touch someone else.

I look forward to those moments with longing and I know that, some day, I'll be the one displaying passion and purpose as I type on my keyboard, creating my newest work of literature. In the meantime, I'm directing that passion into my family, storing up stories that will find their way to the page when time allows. And I'm watching other people pursue their passions and live their dreams as a reminder that my dreams are still there, waiting to be realized.

Challenge: Stress Relief

I'm typing this post on my trusty iPhone while the Peanut is napping on my lap. It turns out when you're raising an infant you find all sorts of creative ways to get things done. It's taken some time (almost 10 months, to be exact), but I'm finally starting to figure things out.

I think. 

One of the things I miss most about my pre-baby life is my yoga practice. The physical challenge, the grounding and centering, the relaxation. If anyone could benefit from a consistent practice, certainly it's a new mom. Unfortunately, it's not always easy to make it happen. 

Instead of hour-and-a-half classes a few times a week, my yoga practice these days consists of a few deep breaths while nursing, a stolen Downward Dog and Child's Pose while the Peanut plays, and if I'm lucky, a pre-bed stretch or two. Enter The Sisterhood of the Shrinking Jeans and their Great Stress Relief Challenge. Stress relief? Um, yes, please! And I think the motivation of a challenge will help me to get my butt on my mat a few times a week again. 

What say you? Will you join me as I find my way back onto my mat? I'll be happy to answer any yoga questions you have. You can email me or comment here. And I will root you on, too. Just leave me a comment and let me know you're participating in the challenge!

Eighteen Again

Motherhood has taught me a lot of lessons in the few months since I joined the club, but the biggest one I'm learning is how to give myself a break. That's a hard lesson to learn when I've been beating myself up about my body for most of my life.

In the recent past, I managed to develop a positive self-image and I've had several years of self acceptance, which included a few years where I was wearing the smallest sizes I'd ever worn as an adult. But now I'm wearing an 18 again, and I'm none too happy about it. I find myself too quickly falling back into that well of negative self-talk, a place that I thought I'd climbed out of for good.

Don't get me wrong. I recognize that I gave birth less than a year ago, and that my body did an amazing thing, growing a human being and all. Unfortunately, now that he's heading swiftly toward his first birthday and I'm not even close to fitting into my pre-pregnancy clothes, I'm having a bit of trouble looking at myself in the mirror and thinking happy thoughts.

I know I shouldn't be too hard on myself, but I also know how hard I worked to fit into that size 8 dress a couple of years ago. I know that I made some poor choices while I was pregnant and gave into too many cravings.

I can't take back all the weight I gained while I was pregnant, but I can choose each day to work my way back toward that size 8. I've done it before, and while it might take a bit more effort now that I don't have a gym membership or hours that I can spend doing cardio and lifting weights, I know I can do it again. And I hope I can teach my son to have a healthy relationship with food and exercise along the way.

The Perfect Moment

As if I haven’t had enough change in my life over the last couple of years, I’m about to take a huge risk. In two weeks, I say good-bye to my full-time employer and embark on the scariest, most exciting journey yet. I’ve been working for the same small government contractor for more than six years now. A core group of about ten employees has come to be like a family to me and I’m sad to see my last days with them come. Still, the excitement of something new is brewing.

I’ve often dreamed of being a stay-at-home mom and running my own business from home, but I never really thought it would be feasible. I just thought it would be nice. Then, one night when Jesse and I were going over the pros and cons of my staying home with our little one for the fourteenth time, Jesse said to me, “I’d hate for you to have this opportunity to do what you really want to do and not take it. I don’t want you to regret that.” Those words have echoed in my mind over and over again as the deadline for a decision got closer and closer. I knew what I really wanted and, with the support of my husband, I let it unfold for me.

There were a lot of reasons to walk away from a good-paying job: a long commute; my desire to nurse the baby for as long as I can; a lack of family in the area who could help with child care and a limited budget for daycare or a nanny; not wanting to miss any of those important early moments; and the chance to take a chance. But there were also a lot of reasons not to walk away: really good health insurance; professional relationships (and friendships); a respectable income; a career I’ve spent years building; and a fear of failing at something new. Despite the cons of leaving my job, deep down, I think I always knew what we would do. I never once looked into daycare for the baby, never once thought about how I would handle the logistics of working and raising a child.

Don’t get me wrong, a lack of independent wealth means this decision was not an easy one—we’re going to be cutting corners, clipping coupons and stretching budgets. I wouldn’t say we’ve decided to live off one income because we CAN. We’ve decided that it’s what we WANT and we’re going to make it happen.

For years I’ve been trying to build up the courage to do something different. I’ve been hemming and hawing, building a business in fits and starts while hoping that the perfect moment to take the leap would come. But it never did. Turns out there’s never really a perfect moment for anything. No perfect moment for falling in love. No perfect moment for having a baby. And no perfect moment for quitting a perfectly acceptable job with a significant and steady income to try something new, something unpredictable and a little unknown.

But we do these things anyway. We find ourselves in situations we didn’t expect or hadn’t planned and we make the best of them. In my experience, more often than not, we realize they’re the best things we could have ever done, anyway. The Universe has a better grasp on what we need (and want) than we do. Maybe every moment is a perfect moment if we choose to let it be.

So in two weeks, when I turn way from that steady, comfortable job, I will turn toward my dreams and I won’t look back. I will look forward, to precious time with my baby boy, to that novel that I’ve been sitting on, to the freelance work I’ve put on hold, to teaching more yoga (and practicing more, too). I’ll look forward to whatever is on the horizon, whether I can see it yet or not, and know that the timing of everything will be perfect.