There is a very large part of me that wants to make this a merry and bright Christmasy post. Sugar plums and ice skating and Santa brought everything and ate his warm, frosted cookies and twinkling lights and all of that. But I’m tired. I’m so tired. Infant stage is hard, but I’m figuring out it’s not just that. Kids are hard. Parenting is hard. Marriage is pretty easy on it’s own, until you add no sleep, cars breaking down, people you love making bad decisions, and then it gets hard too. Even something as good as love and marriage and something that started with flirting and kissing, that gets hard too. But, gosh I am so much more comfortable with a fresh manicure, a full night of sleep, sipping a margarita from Gabby’s and downing pica de gallo and chips over inspiring conversation. Yes, this. This happens too; but so do we ran out of coffee mornings where I just want to hide in the bathroom and forget that anyone needs me and fall asleep until next year.
When I am in between should I do this or not, I usually do. I am a doer by nature. I don’t like how excuses sound coming out of my mouth or anyone else’s for that matter, it feels weak to me. So I say yes, to a fault. I show up and sometimes it works and sometimes it’s really hard. Last night, it was going well..until it wasn’t. My kids always rise to the occasion when I push them a little past their bedtime and I am so proud of them. With a working husband and a tired mama, when an inconsolable baby is in your pouch as you try to bounce him to sleep and you find your two year old with toys scattered everywhere in the middle of a room where quiet is appreciated. It’s hard. It’s late and it’s heavy. It’s one of those moments I want my mom to come and hold me like she did when I was 12 and had tears because I didn’t make the team. I want to curl up in her arms and have her tell me it’s going to be okay while she combs my hair with her fingers and I doze off to sleep.
Do the next best thing. That’s all I can do, thanks Glennon* for teaching me this. The next best thing, Jen. You can do it. Thanks for teaching me that writing is not nessesarily eloquent words, sometimes writing is just being real with your readers because we are all fighting a battle and we are all in this together. That THIS is a part of me. This and that and every little thing is a part of me and my story and it’s all “brutiful”. Gorgeous and beautiful and brutal all together. To stop making parenting hard by pretending that it isn’t.
Post Partum depression is something I haven’t blogged much about because sometimes it feels shameful and weak. However, it is something I dealt with after my first and am once again dealing with during these first months with my second baby. Even writing that made me feel so vulnerable and a bit uncomfortable. Also, freedom. Not a here’s my junk, deal with it type of freedom..but a real, true, acceptance type freedom. A self love freedom, an empowering one. That this is a part of me that I want to cover up with perfect makeup, read another devotion, go get a message, have a girls night and don’t really talk about it. But that’s not true. So, here I am. imperfect, fully loved. In my weaknesses, He is strong. It is now that I can feel him, my savior, hold me tighter. His presence is my lifeline. When the voices come and tell me, she is not struggling with motherhood..look, she has it all together..what’s wrong with you? I chose not to listen. My sister in law once told me, everyone has their crap. Every. single. person. We just don’t talk about it too much. (which is nice because talking about our crap allllll of the time would pretty much drive this glass is half full girl bonkers)
So, this, this motherhood thing. It drives me absolutely nuts some moments and challenges my selfish soul because to give and keep on giving is the most spiritual experience imaginable. That at the end of the day, I am spent and empty from giving millions of kisses and maybe crying and consoling the crying and laughing until it hurts and dreaming and being scared. It causes me to grow and chose the right every single day. It makes my head spin and brings me absolute joy every single moment. That feeling of watching my little girl kiss my baby boy’s head, perfection. I look behind me in my car and see two sets of little toes and eyes looking up at me. I get to show them this beautiful world. I also get to rub their back when life is gnarly to them.
So, there’s my crap. Gosh, I feel better. Ha. There is freedom in vulnerability, isn’t there? Sister, brother..in your crap, you are so loved. Isn’t that so beautiful?
*Glennon Melton and her book, Carry On, Warrior has become an anthem for my life. Read it if you wanna read some stuff that will change your life.