I Have a Confession: We're Really Far From Perfect

The other day I met a dear friend for coffee. We hugged and she greeted me with a sweet (or possibly for courtesy purposes, either way I appreciate the gesture), "You look so cute! I am all scrubby, I just got back from a [workout] class." This is funny, because during our embrace I was hoping she wasn't closing in too far as to smell my inevitable B.O. I laughed and answered her with a, "Thanks! But I don't remember the last time I showered, so you're doing better than me." This is also funny because the same day, my sister greeted me after she got home from work with a, "Have you been wearing that shirt for 2 days now?" I will neither confirm nor deny. Now don't watch as I sulk away in shame. See, if you're a momma of small babies or if your babies were once small, you know it's nothing unusual to forfeit a shower in serving the greater need. Mornings start quick and the days are long. And let's face it, a shower is so much more enjoyable without the impending threat of a waking baby- or worse- an awake baby opening the shower curtain, tossing your shampoos, and crying when the water sprays in their face. Sometimes its best to wait until dad gets home from work so he can have some, ahem, "bonding time", as I sneak away for a few minutes of peace. I'm practically doing him a favor. He should be thanking me, right? Right. Well here's the thing: My hard working, selfless husb has been doing double-time on his workload lately, adding a head coaching position on top of his already busy work schedule. Add on our couple-nights-a-week obligations, church activities and GASP some fun time, and you've got yourself a full plate. Enter, stinky me. Don't worry, I've been doubling up on the deodorant and dry shampoo. 

I was told a couple weeks ago that my house and my life look so cute and perfect on Instagram. Well for the sake of being an avid myth-buster, let me just give you a peak into reality: my house is a disaster. All. The. Time. Currently my floor-to-laundry ratio in my living room is decreasing by the moment. I know that it all came out of the dryer, ready to be folded at some point, but now, I'm not completely confident which clothing articles are clean or dirty. Im not bothered; like I said, I'll probably pick a shirt and wear it for three days anyway, so whether or not it start off clean kind of becomes a moot point. While I try to keep my house nice and pretty, I fail miserably. Often. I do love my home and am proud of it when it's put together, which is usually the only time I advertise the condition of my house on Instagram. From now on, I'll try to display a more accurate version on my social media outlets. You'll thank me later. 

Another day this past week I had some girlfriends over working on some craft projects. We were working and laughing and drinking cocoa, and started talking about our lives BC (that's cool people slang for before Christ, I've heard), and how our lives have changed. I told her that while yes, Will and I were both saved trying to live accordingly when we got married, our first year was really hard. We dealt with a lot of big things and, I imagine as many newlyweds do, had our struggles in learning to live together in unity. My sweet friend expressed how surprised she was because we "look so happy! You guy just seem so in love and perfect." We are indeed very in love. My husband brings me so much joy and is truly my greatest treasure in this life. However, I will never claim to have a perfect marriage. Honestly, I have no idea what that even means, because lets face it, there's no perfect people. If two imperfect people coexist in a two-become-one love-ship, how could we possibly expect perfection? My marriage, like I presume all others who are in a healthy relationship, is hard work. We disagree and argue and sometimes I cry. We make each other mad and hurt each other's feelings and sometimes aren't sorry. Occasionally its a mess and we need help from our friends to get our heads on straight again. Enter Jesus. We honestly don't have the capacity in and of ourselves to be loving enough, forgiving enough, selfless enough to have the happy marriage that we do. As our circumstances change and things get hard, it's only Jesus that takes us from falling apart to falling into each other. We play by simple rules: we don't call names, we don't put each other down, we forgive, we make up, we move on.  That's what its all about. Thats what makes any relationship worth while-- it's looking back at that first year and seeing how far you've come together. It's choosing day after day to love, even when we don't feel like it. WOAH JODI, getting a little preachy. Alright, I digress. All that to say, we are absolutely not perfect. We are crazy imperfect people who are madly in love. That's what we are. 

So thats it. I'm sorry if I burst your bubble or let the ugly cat out of the secret bag, but that's the truth. I am actually a stinky mess. My life is crazy and unkept. Sometimes I get it right, but often times I don't. It's fine though, I showered today. 

Nehemiah's 1st Birthday: Little Man Mustache Bash

We recently had the joy of celebrating our little guy's first birthday under a blue September sky with delicious food and fabulous company. We decided to throw it at the lake, our home-away-from-home for the past 3 months. Jesus couldn't have given us better whether: 80 and sun! It was perfect for the kiddos that wanted to go for a dip and the guys busy playing horseshoes. We were so blessed to have {most of} our closest friends and family partying with us! Thank you Bethany for capturing the fun :)

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Nehemiah's best pals getting their party on

                           
                                 

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Our friends know how to have a good time, too!

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Some decorations and cake smashing

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proud {mustached} parents

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All this celebrating because this little guy was born. Happy birthday Nehemiah!

There's just something so precious about

footie pajamas
sweaty hair
sleepy eyes
diaper bums
stubby-toothed smiles
untamed hair
noodles in the bathwater
uncoordinated claps
stained Ts
tiny lips
and eyelashes
and fingernails

353 Days

Today is less than two weeks shy of Nehemiah's first birthday. 

Beside the typical shock and disbelief of a year come and gone, this week has hit me like a ton of bricks and released the floodgates of emotion. Theres been times where I sit and hold all 19 pounds of my little boy, recalling vague memories of what it was like to cradle the shy-of-six-pounds version. 

As I packed away his six month sized clothes last week (he may be shrimpy, but at least he's fitting in nine month sized clothes now. Small victories, people.), I couldn't help but feel so nostalgic over each article of clothing. He'll never go backward; this growing and becoming of Nehemiah will continue until forever comes. And did I cherish it enough? Was I present enough? Did I give enough, do enough, love enough? Day by day his infancy slips through my fingers, seemingly faster and faster. 

And there are moments when I almost feel like time stands still — times when I remember to take a mental picture to hold on to forever. Times when the scraps of breakfast that litter the high chair and floor make me smile instead of frustrated, when the dirty laundry just reminds me of the fun that accompanied the mud-crusted onesie, when Little One's laughing and giggling totally erases the hours of crying and whining that ensued before. But did I do that enough? Did I appreciate more than frustrate? Did I wish the time away by eagerly waiting for the next, newest stage? By thinking, "I can't wait until he..."? Sometimes, its so easy for myself to get lost in these what-ifs and should-haves. 

But then I read incredibly insightful, laughably accurate writing like this: 

There are people who say this to me: 

“You should enjoy every moment now! They grow up so fast!”
I usually smile and give some sort of guffaw, but inside, I secretly want to hold those people under water. Just for a minute or so. Just until they panic a little.
If you have friends with small children — especially if your children are now teenagers or if they’re grown – please vow to me right now that you will never say this to them. Not because it’s not true, but because it really, really doesn’t help.
We know it’s true that they grow up too fast. But feeling like I have to enjoy every moment doesn’t feel like a gift, it feels like one more thing that is impossible to do, and right now, that list is way too long. Not every moment is enjoyable as a parent; it wasn’t for you, and it isn’t for me. You just have obviously forgotten. I can forgive you for that. But if you tell me to enjoy every moment one more time, I will need to break up with you.

Steve Wiens | To the parents of young children: Let me be the one who says it ouloud | The Actual Pastor


And then I remember, we survived one year. The first year of parenthood. One crazy, life-changing, roller coaster year and all it had to offer. Sleepless nights and tears and E.R. trips and poopsplosions and the growing of teeth. We've had the pleasure (albeit, occasionally unpleasureable experience) of standing back and watching Nehemiah grow a little more into the person he is to become. We've gotten to participate a small amount in the forming of a 353 day-old person and enjoy the blossoming of the personality to match. And surviving, let alone enjoying it is a feat worth celebrating.

Focusing on the should've could've would've's (was that as awkward to read as it was to type?) is a hopeless cause that only ends in regret and disappointment. The fact is, we're all just human. We take things a day at a time and learn as we go. We have made more mistakes than we're willing to admit and are just glad that Nehemiah's hippocampus isn't developed enough to remember it. 

So here's to one year come and gone. One year, with enough Instagrams and blog posts and journal scrawlings to at least jog the memories of the gone-too-soon moments. The good, the bad, the ugly —  it's over. One year. And there's no revising it. So, I suppose there's nothing left to do but grab our party hats and cupcakes and celebrate. 

Confession: The Laundry Piles and the Ninja Moves

Sometimes, you just have to put your kid in the middle of the living room floor to maximize everyone's afternoon nap time experience.  Or maybe that's just me-- don't judge. See, we haven't gotten the arms-to-crib transition down quiet yet. In fact, it's actually uncanny how quickly a certain Little in mid-REM can be wide awake upon touch-down to mattress. Desperate times call for desperate measures. When this momma has a truckload of To Do's (which, let's face it, is always), I go for the ole "let baby fall asleep in arms, lay down on the floor and sneak away like a ninja" maneuver. Works like a charm. There's just days when it isn't worth the fight, and I'd rather be spending that valuable time scrubbing leftovers from Fiestaware or meticulously Spray N' Washing acai stained onesies. (There was once a time when I'd probably inflict injury on myself for saying that. Oh well.) Today is one of those days.

Lucky me, my sweet husband cleaned the kitchen for me today with no coaxing at all. Score. However, the laundry pile, sticky floors and Little Man's birthday prepping is all me. So I strategically and unashamedly placed sleeping N in a pile of clean laundry in the living room. See, I was leaving it unfolded intentionally. I got about 25 minutes of glorious, uninterrupted me-time before his eyes peeled wide open, he spotted me, and frantically and hysterically bawled/crawled his way to me. His staggering and stumbling and flat out pathetic face earned him a spot in my lap, in which he promptly closed his eyes and went back to dreamland. Again, I wonder how the on-off switch flips so quickly, and why that superpower fades in adulthood. I know, I'm meriting myself a spot in the over attached over dependent camp for a move like that, but oh well. I'll take the trade the occasional evil-eye while collecting my distraught mommy-deprived son from nursery for this; being so needed by my sweaty, sweet-smelling and sleepy-eyed boy, instantly melted into my lap and being well with the world.

I know this won't last for long. Liking your mom is very uncool after a certain age, so I've heard. Being needed is so fleeting; soon he'll be too big for snuggles and too cool for kisses. At least for now he's still small enough to sit on and force into a hug. Only kidding. So about that unfolded laundry..

Catch Up |

Gosh darn it people, I am such a hot and cold writer. One minute, I am starting new blogs, having all sorts of interesting things to talk about, and the next minute, I am taking a virtual vow of silence for three months. Oops. Well after having three months to conjour up plenty of noteworthy thoughts, please excuse me while I write 249435 blog posts this week. Hot and cold I tell ya. #sorrynotsorry. (What? It isn't cool to use arbitrary hashtags outside social media? Oops again.)

Life has been busy. I guess such is true for everyone. I now am a proud momma of a 10 month old; consequently, I spend the majority of my days chasing his [alarmingly quick] crawl-getaways, fishing miscellaneous inedibles from his mouth, and dissuading him from from outlets.

All of his energy and enthusiasm for life comes with the counterpart of a growing personality. He is so much fun. I know, the non-parents in the building are shaking their heads with pity at such an asinine claim. Rightfully so, non-parents. I'lll be the first to admit that "fun" doesn't look the same anymore. What was once adventure and self-exploration and ad-lib and whimsy is now exchanged with big-brother reason and homebodyness and stability and predictability. That being said, I can without reservation say that watching my Little learn and bloom fills my heart with purpose and genuine joy more than any fleeting adrenaline rush or spontaneity or being young and wild and free. He is fun. Being a mom is fun. I am happy to be the airplane spoon pilot, the lullaby singer, the toy coraler and the mid-night soother. I've traded any hope for designer clothes in for spit-up and sweet potato stained versions. I'm skipping over the young twenties night life of martinis and cosmos for night-feedings that bring early mornings and triple-shot espresso. Happily. 

That being said, I can't help but occasionally long for freedom and full nights' sleep and the abandon of responsibility. It's hard sometimes to quiet my unsatisfied soul and find peace and completeness in the crossfire of dirty diapers and Cheerio casualties. To stop coveting other grass and continually water my own. Remembering the tradeoff for freedom and fun sometimes feels like loneliness and insecurity. So now, as my Little Whirlwind wakes with a vengeance and cries for my rescue from his crib-jail, I will embrace the fun and joy and fulfillment that is being needed. Having the stability and warmth of a home filled with the people I love that many only dream of. Being invaluable to his little world. Being his momma.

Dear Nehemiah

Dear Nehemiah,

As you finally lay, napping, I can soak in a quiet moment and write. You are a whirlwind of motion and restlessness and an urging to discover, explore. Tomorrow you will have completed your eighth month. You've spend eight months going from vulnerable, gentle-spirited, dependent Nehemiah to the fearless, adventurous, on-the move boy who's infatuated with life. I watch you clamber across the floor and reach at things, palms wide, receiving all that it has to offer. You extend your little fingers open as if to take in the most of the tangible as you take in the conceptual. It's amazing to watch you learn. You are teaching me again the art of discovery. You're a living example of the wonder a change of perspective can have on a life. You are enthralled by all things new; held by the excitement and mystery. I am the pupil and you are teaching me, Nehemiah, to be so enchanted by the mundane. I am re-learning to crawl and balance and sit up and eat the food that's given.
"He's such a happy baby!" "He's such a content little guy." That you are. There is much that doesn't shake you; you are adaptable and tolerable and still gentle-spirited. Everything makes you laugh. We love tickling you when you're baring all, fresh from the tub. You propel yourself into fits of laughter at just the anticipation of our tickles. You are smitten by your newly acquired skills: the open and close of your eyes, sitting on your own, inching yourself across the floor. You are self-assured and motivated by your desire to see more, do more. But whenever you are afraid that you've wandered too far, all you need to do is turn around; you'll find that daddy and I have been cheering you on all along.
We are so proud and inspired and captivated by the small body that encases the big name and an even bigger spirit. You are so loved.

M

The Waged War (that you had no idea existed)

 Something happens to you when you have a baby. Actually, it may even happen to you when you're pregnant or first considering having a baby. But those pale in comparison to what happens when your baby comes. For those who don't have a kid yet, let me let you in on a little secret: There's a war being waged. It comes in the form of women-fighting, also known as coy, unassuming and almost inaudible bantering and boasting and advising. Wouldn't it be easier if we were men, and issues were settled over a fist-fight and a beer? Can I get an amen? ..moving on. Anyway, this war being waged is known as parenting style. I am calling it a war because from my experience, it's as split as politics. You're red or blue. It can be as vicious. And once you're a parent, there's no going AWOL on the issue; you're drafted to a side and (I'm assuming) you spend the rest of your life questioning your allegiance to the side which you've pledged.
Let me explain.
When I was about 30-weeks pregnant, I read someone jokingly comment on the Ferber method, saying, "People say it raises stress hormones in babies to let them cry it out. I say, it raises stress hormones in the parents if you don't!" And there was my first taste of the opinionated conflict in which I was about to join. My sister-in-law who is expecting told me that she plans on using the Montessori method in raising and teaching her children. To which I replied, "What's that?" (You're surprised, I know.) When I had a several week old baby whom I carried frequently in my Moby wrap, I was told that I was going to become an attachment parent. A what? (You can read more on attachment parenting here.) By me carrying my baby in a sling so I had hope of washing a dish or three before his waking, I was somehow ascribing myself to a parenting technique that I was completely blind to. So from then, I started researching. I scoured the internet and books and picked women's brains about parenting methods. I wanted to be very informed. I am a planner. A scheduler. An organizer. I like to have my next three steps planned out before I take them. Society was telling me that I needed to pick a side. I needed to follow a scheme, a method, a technique, a style. Loving my baby and doing what felt natural at the time was not enough.
I have been talking to my good friend and fellow new mom C about this regularly. We talk and decide  and solve all of the worlds problems over morning coffee. (All in a day's work, C.) I laughed when one day she rhetorically asked, "So what is attachment parenting, exactly? Loving your baby TOO much?" I guess, in lament terms. I have concluded that these techniques generally come from two schools of thought: 1, they are the baby, we are the parents. They will fit into our lives, not the other way around. My reply to this is: Good luck with that, may the force be with you. School of thought number 2, They are a baby, and that is fleeting. I will comfort and care for my baby in the way that they request, even if it's at my expense. My reply to this is: Also, good luck. You'll be very tired for a lot of months.
Perhaps we fall somewhere in the middle. Perhaps we don't know. Perhaps we change sides as often as we change our socks.
Moms: let me holla at you for a second. So maybe you're loyal to your side. You are a tried and true ______(fill in the blank), and that's the only way that parenting makes sense to you. That's great! But just because that's what works for you, doesn't mean it works for all. You were gifted with different traits than the next woman, and that will drastically shape the mother that you (and she) will become. Let us be encouraging, uplifting, and non-judging in the way someone else loves their babies. I speak to myself on this too. We need to embrace that love and teaching come in many forms.
In my short 7 months of being a mom, I've gathered this: I question my decisions constantly. I wonder daily if what I am doing now will in some way hinder his future. I think that it could have gone better had I done something differently. I envy other mothers who seem to have it all together. I am embarrassed at times when my baby acts a certain way and I know people are judging my parenting. I also have learned that for the most part, I am not alone in my second guessing and short comings.
There were a lot of months where I felt I should do something that felt unnatural to me as a mom because that was "the best way", or even worse, "the only way". There were a lot of months where I felt guilty for mothering in the way that came easily and organically. I'll fill you in on some personal confessions:
I nurse my son to sleep more often than not. Oops.
Sometimes I let him sleep in our bed. (and we like it)
Sometimes I leave him to cry if my hands are tied and I know he's ok.
Sometimes I just let him cry because I am frustrated and tired.
He won't take a bottle because I exclusively breast fed him this whole time. Which means I can't leave him for more than 3 hours.
He is impossible to console by anyone but me when he's tired.
To this I say I'm done being ashamed of the way I mother, because there's no right or wrong way. We were gifted our children to raise up in a way that only we can. We all will have different successes and failures, boundaries, talents. The only non-negotiable is to raise them up in love. I find that when I am weary and confused, the only place that makes sense is my Bible. I get myself elbow-deep in scripture and prayer, and come back to the realization that there's no hard and fast parenting rules, there's only themes that I can glean from my Heavenly Father. Grace. Mercy. Forgiveness. Structure. Love. Respect. Compassion.
I say as long as we keep coming back to those themes, I don't think it makes much difference if you're a Ferberizer, an attachment parent, a Montessouir (see what I did there?), or anything in between. I don't follow books and teachings and theorists. I follow the maternal instincts that God gave me. I follow the Word. I follow the experience and advice of women that I respect. I mess up or succeed, then I try again the next day.

For Me and My

Hello to faithful blog readers :) As you've noticed, I've changed my name and URL to my blog. This blog is a continuation of sorts. I first began blogging when I was pregnant with my son to document the physical and mental experiences that came with it. I mostly began writing it for myself, and later learned of the added bonus that there were lots of people who enjoyed reading about my highs and lows as much as I enjoyed writing them. Now, as the mother of a 7-month-old, my previous writing forum Making Way for baby K seems like a moot point, because he well, made his way. So anyway, I am starting a new one. I plan on writing about all things being a new mom, a wife, a Christian, a 20-something. My thoughts, feelings, opinions. We'll see where this blog takes us.

I am calling it For Me and My, taken from one of my homemaker mantras, Joshua 24:15. "But as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord." That is my prayer for my life, and I hope this blog will be a reflection of my successes and shortcomings in striving for it.