I Am Here

I hear the 'drip...drip...drip' and the beep of the coffee maker. The candles are glowing and giving off a faint vanilla and lavender scent. Standing up from my little white desk in my tiny dining room nook, I wrap my cardigan tighter around me. Slowly, I pour a warm cup of decaffeinated coffee and add my favorite hazelnut cream. The house is dark and I can hear the faint hum of the heater, soon to kick back on. Our fat black house cat hops in my lap, his favorite place, while I sit and write. I close my eyes before I begin putting my pen to the paper, and I breathe deeply. I can feel it encompassing my shoulders, I can smell it down to the bones of our one hundred year old home. I can sense it in the squeaks and creaks of these aging wooden floors- it is love. It is here. It is home.

I have always struggled with love. In high school I dated a handsome and Godly young man who I truly believed that I would marry. We met when we were fifteen and stayed together until I was eighteen and preparing to leave Michigan for Kentucky. That summer, I began to panic. I feared change and in my heart, I was convinced that I would end up being the one who got hurt in the relationship. So kissing another guy made total sense in my still very young mind, when in reality it ruined our relationship, making me emotionally miserable for many months of my freshman year of college.

Fast forward to my fifth year of marriage, when I was twenty-five and figuring out how to be Mom to two babies, fifteen months apart from each other. My hormones were a mess, I had Postpartum Thyroditis for almost two years straight and my emotions were all out of whack. It made total sense to start toying with an emotional attachment to someone else then, right? My once God-centered marriage, the one I naively believed was immune to wrong-doing, was shaken to its' core. I was so scared because everything seemed so good and so safe- Our jobs, two happy and healthy children, a beautiful home in the heart of the city; I began to consider sabotaging it, just like eighteen-year-old me.

What resulted was the worst storm our family has ever seen, a summer spent of guilt, repentance, forgiveness and reconciliation. The words 'I choose you' tattooed on our arms, are a daily reminder that my husband chose me, in spite of my failures; and that I so humbly, choose him in return.

The wick on the candle pops loudly. The coffee maker beeps again, this time letting me know that it has been almost two hours since it brewed. My cat stretches and yawns, looking up at me almost as if saying, “Aren't you ready for bed yet?” No, not yet. I want to write a little more. I want my heart to be reminded of how far it has stretched and grown, how it has been rebuilt from the tiny shatters along the way. I want to appreciate this life, this love. And then I want to close my tired eyes as I climb into bed, slipping my hand into his as I drift off.

Our children are so happy. Sweet Pierson and spunky Reese. Three and two, they are not anything I could have planned for, nor could my heart have ever realized the bittersweet pain it would endure by loving them. They have been spared, by the grace of God, from when I was digging my heels into figuring out how to accept grace and forgiveness. They never witnessed my husband's hurt and anger and they never heard me say that I thought about leaving. Thank God for this, for growth and for mercy—that we want our children to grow to know their Creator and that because of that, we strive to be better.

Life is leveling out, our routine now just flows, they love their nightly bath and bedtime. They are learning how to love each other as well as how to manage their feelings when they don't. He asks a million questions a day and he radiates love everywhere he goes. She speaks up a storm, and spends her day being Mommy to her baby dolls. She is absolutely the best cuddler in the entire universe. Together, they complete me.

Here I am, mother of two, wife of seven years and I have grown so much. I remember sobbing my eyes out (as well as shamefully spewing out some not-so-nice words) when I read 'pregnant' on that stick. He was seven months old; I had been nursing and taking a birth control pill safe for breastfeeding mothers. My cycle never started, I woke up on Martin Luther King Jr. Day three years ago feeling funny, and I just knew. Every single ounce of me doubted my capability of raising two tiny humans. “How am I going to go to the grocery store?” I thought. “How will I get out of the car and up the gazillion (ten...) steps to our home?” “How can I carry two children on my hips?” All of these trivial questions entered my brain and sadly stuck there for months on end, until learning she was a girl and when I started to embrace my journey with her. They play tag, running in circles around the open spaces of our first floor. Play-doh creations and Hotwheel races, dressing up like Batman and Princesses, experimenting with nail polish and Spiderman tattoos. And I just want to freeze time. Every single night before I climb into bed, I can't not quietly go into their rooms. It never fails that he is cuddling Lion and she is holding her Bitty Baby's hand, their fuzzy blankets warmly comforting their still baby cheeks.

My legs are beginning to fall asleep. I need to stretch them out and he jumps down. “Sorry, Sam,” I whisper. I close the cover to my journal which reads, “Let it Be.” I rest my head on the back of my hands and my eyes happily close. The words that have been said here, the memories that are embedded in this place; let them stay. I am so far from having it all together. I have screwed up, I have had to ask for complete forgiveness in more ways than one and I have cried into my husband's chest as he reminds me why I am loved. It doesn't come easily for me, sometimes it has even made me want to run. But the place that I am in, the “You are Here” dot that grounds me; it is their love. It is in the safety of his arms, the soothing tones of his voice. It is the contagious laughter that bursts from my children and in the warmth of their perfect embrace. The road to get here hasn't been easy but I am here now and that's all that matters.

Thunder Thighs or Skinny Mini: The Truths Behind Body Shaming

• body image. noun. "the subjective picture or mental image of one's own body."
  body shaming. noun. "shaming someone for their body type." (she hasn't lost her baby weight yet? she looks terrible!) or (did you SEE that girl?! she's too skinny!")

I have always been "the small girl." I reached my maximum height when I was in the fifth grade and from high school on, my weight remained a consistent 110#. Once I got to college and was no longer playing sports, fitness rarely crossed my mind. I continued however, to wear most of the same clothes that I wore in high school and I was beginning to come to terms with the fact that 'flat' was just my body type. I wasn't ever graced with good curves and many times I have been referred to as a 'rolling pin.' As I've gotten older, I've even had others refer to my 'chicken legs.' Society admits calling a woman 'thunder thighs' or 'chunky' is unacceptable. When is society then going to catch on to the same offense caused bylabels such as 'twig' and 'surf board?'

I met my husband when I was nineteen and we were married by twenty. My still-young body remained the same. Three years down the road, I happily got pregnant with our first baby, our son. When I read pregnant on the digital pregnancy test, I couldn't have been more thrilled. We had tried for several months and I was so ecstatic to rock a pregnant bod. I couldn't wait for the baby bump, and when it began to grow, my excitement never faltered.

He was eight pounds two ounces and I was so happy to have a healthy baby boy. Having no idea what a legit post-baby bod would look like, I was a bit traumatized that I had a miniature basketball belly still there, even after he came out. But I watched that little ball shrink more, and more, and more, day after day and within two weeks, it was completely gone. My belly flattened, and went back to almost 100% normal. My core was weak and I knew it would take some exercise to get those muscles back to my normal, but I was still thrilled. Pregnancy felt great and here I was, with a brand new baby, not feeling too shabby.

And then it happened. My hair began to fall out in clumps. Not the normal shedding while shampooing or brushing after a shower, but my hair, in piles. "This is normal after a baby!" everyone told me. Then my heart rate sped into high gear. It felt like my chest would burst at times from its' speed. I started to get sad, a lot. I cried over really silly things, like my son growing bigger. I worried over the most trivial nonsense. I walked down the hall at my school and my co-workers began to ask, "Are you sure you're eating enough?" I could hear the uncertainty in their voices; the caution and worry. "You're breastfeeding though, right? So it's normal to lose weight quickly for some women!" they would say. My pants began to fall off of me; my regular pre-maternity pants that I've worn forever. I stepped on a scale. 105#.

I yelled for my husband to come in and look at the number. "Well, you are nursing," he said. "I've heard it's normal for some women to lose weight quicker while nursing." I stepped on the scale the next afternoon, 104#. And the next, 103#. "Are you sure you're eating enough?!" he gently checked as he too, was starting to worry. We began to track my calories, and I indulged myself in huge amounts of Nutella, carbs and cheese. "If I get below 100# I have to see a doctor," I told him. I was worried, I honest to God felt like I was wasting away, I felt judged and like all eyes were on me, but there was nothing I could do about it. Rumors spread at work that I was anorexic; co-workers monitored my lunch eating habits. I started to hear comments about how 'sickly' I looked and how I needed to put on weight. Several days later the scale read 97#. I immediately went to see my doctor and after doing a heart test and going through all of my symptoms, she nonchalantly said, "You have hyperthyroid! It's no big deal. I'll get you referred to a specialist and you'll be perfectly fine." I was able to breathe a little bit better, knowing that I at least had a diagnosis, one that didn't sound too scary. On to the specialist I went.

Worse news there: she called it Postpartum Thyroiditis and said because it 'was temporary,' there was absolutely nothing she could do except prescribe a pill to regulate my heart rate. My body continued to work on overload and I had gone from a healthy pregnancy weight to a mere 97# within five months. My milk supply dried up because my body was in a starvation mode. Go figure, just a couple months after being diagnosed with Thyroiditis, did I learned that I was pregnant with our daughter. No period, no indication of a period; I had been nursing as often as I could, though I clearly wasn't producing much, and I was on a birth control pill safe for breastfeeding moms (that was obviously pointless and didn't work since I didn't have much milk).

Before my pregnancy with my daughter, my stomach was flat, there wasn't a single stretch mark and even my belly button that once held a ring (sixteen year old me was awesome, duh), was normal. And then the weeks turned to months, the lines appeared on my midsection and my body had a much harder time handling being pregnant. My legs felt like heavy cement slabs, my back throbbed 24/7 and I began to worry how I would feel after her birth. Three days before her due date, she arrived, another eight pound two ounce, healthy baby. And while I had the hardest time initially accepting my pregnancy with her, it felt like she had always been here. I held her in my arms, she latched on to my breast and she was soon sound asleep after nursing like a champ.

Postpartum Thyroiditis hit again, two for two. Luckily I never dropped under 100 and for two years actually, I've maintained the same exact weight. Except it's different. I may be the skinniest I have ever been but I have to admit that when I look in the mirror, I do it so quickly that I dodge certain parts of my stomach. That stomach- the one that carried two strong, healthy, gorgeous babies. The stomach that kept them safe, that was their home, for nine sweet, but difficult months. I never rocked that six-pack and I've always worn a small pants size, but until two years ago, I never had loose skin that drooped when taking off my socks, or pulling up a pair of jeans. There's a part of me who sees that skin and is reminded of the beauty that is my daughter. How I was terrified to have a second child so soon, how I was bitter to give up my body when I had forgotten what it felt like to be mine; but how I also have witnessed grace with her completing our family. Then there is also the other part of me-- the human part-the woman part. My husband could care less about the skin on my stomach. He would tell you he doesn't even see it. And maybe he doesn't. But I do. And the fact of the matter is that this is me.

This is the woman underneath the size 0 pants. The one who is told she has bird legs. The woman who is referred to as "a skinny little thing." Prior to babies, I guess I just had good genes (look at my Mama). Then Postpartum Thyroiditis caused me two years of an emotional roller coaster. And back-to-back pregnancies caused me saggy skin; skin that is difficult for me to wear. As I write, I am wondering when it became okay for others to body shame each other. If a woman is too heavy she is called 'fat,' and if you're in between, maybe you've been called, 'average' and if you're skinny, people tell you "eat a sandwich." No matter what size you are, how your skin looks or doesn't look, isn't this you? And shouldn't we put our arms around the women in our lives and tell them that they are freaking rock stars, child bearing or not?

If you think the answer is the number on a scale, I am telling you it is not. If you think it is in a pant size, well I've found no comfort there. If you are wondering if a skinny girl appearance on the outside has helped me sleep better at night, that's a no. But my so-called 'flat' hips have still served my children well. They have bounced them during long nights; they have been home to their tiny legs wrapped around me. When there's a "hold you" or "up, up, up" request, my 'skinny' arms don't complain. I have a hard time seeing myself without a shirt, I have to tuck in my pooch when I sit down and while I am blessed to be Mom, there is freedom in admitting that I am learning to love her. I don't strive for perfection; I could care less about a number. I want to be healthy and happy, I want my daughter especially to see a strong woman who is comfortable in her skin; a mother who can be open and honest about the trials that have existed on this journey of bringing her children earth side. And I want to be a woman who loves you no matter how you look. While I myself struggle to accept it, we are given these bodies one time. Of course they are going to change as we age; they will tighten and droop and re-tighten. And the bodies we had two years ago won't be the bodies we have tomorrow. We will all strive for different things, but can't we all work our asses off for one thing: to avoid the universally accepted process of body shaming and instead challenge our hearts to seek good in each other?

Hello, 2016

Another New Years Eve, another year leaving us behind. While it is exciting, it is also extremely bittersweet. My toddlers are growing older, I'M growing older, and well, I can 100% now relate to the quote, "The days are long but the years are fleeting." Pierson is three and Reese is two. As trying as they are, I would bottle up their toddlerhood if I could. I've seen those mini-me dolls, like legit dolls, that are 3D versions of people. I joke, but I sincerely want one of each kid. Don't judge, I read about them in our classroom Scholastic magazines and soon as we finished, I exclaimed with excitement to my fourth and fifth graders that this HAD to happen for my kids. They thought I was crazy and yeah... I suppose I am. But toddlerhood, as exhausting and frazzling as it is, is the sweetest stage I'm convinced (yet) that I'll ever get to experience as a Mom. I know kindergarten is going to be pretty dang mind blowing (and terrifying), entering middle school, the sports they'll play or clubs they'll join. Drivers licenses and high school graduations, but good gravy, two and three is magical.  

Some of our re-caps:
2015 was pretty free of drama. I made some huge mistakes and had what I call my 'mid-quarter crisis' in 2014. That wasn't my best year, at ALL. So this year was a road of recovery, fresh air and rekindling our marriage. We went to North Carolina in July and that was pretty frickin sweet. A few days in the mountains, with some really great friends, experiencing a sense of freshness that we hadn't yet ever grasped.
Pierson had a hernia repair and hydrocele surgery in March. Seeing him in a hospital gown and getting drugged with laughy-gas had me in an internal puddle of hysteria BUT, he was the strong and brave boy that we knew he was. It went so well and after his nap back at home, he was back to his energetic, hilarious self. Praise GOD for that and as amazing as he was, I really pray that's the worst of his medical experiences (though who am I kidding... he's all boy!) 
We listed our house for sale in May and then had it taken off the market within 3 weeks. YUP! It was a complete whirlwind. And getting two kids, two cats, two dogs OUT of the house while it was being shown was well... our own little slice of hell. Within 5 days someone made an offer and when they did, I sobbed my eyes out hysterically. I should have known THEN that I wasn't ready to leave this place. We had several more offers come in but the biggest challenge was that there was no place to move INTO. NOTHING on the market was appealing to us. Believe it or not, there wasn't a decent sized home on 2-3 acres within city limits within our budget!? Ha ha! I mean, I only want an old barn, one that can house 2 or 3 or 6 horses, a barn full of cats, that has a heated office where I can sleep, and a functioning tack room. I'm kidding. (I'm not. But this is the dream). So we will re-assess this coming spring. Ideally yes, I do want a couple of acres, with a barn, and maybe even an old run down house that we can renovate over time. Does that exist here? NO IDEA! And that will be the exciting part of 2016 for me; where will God take us?   

I'm not the type to make resolutions with the start of a New Year, but through reading my Grandma's journals, I was inspired to bake one new pie a month. "Baked another blueberry pie today," it reads. Or, "Baked FOUR pies today. Put 2 in the freezer, ate one, and gave one to Beth for the kids. Hope I can get at least four in the freezer. They're so nice to have ready in case of unexpected company." She was amazing. She left a far greater legacy than 'just' pies, but this something quirky I always loved. SO, I actually followed through and accomplished meeting my 2015 New Years Resolution--the first resolution I've EVER been able to keep :) 

I love what Bob Goff says in his book Love Does: "Every day God invites us on the same kind of adventure. It's not a trip where He sends us on a rigid itinerary, He simply invites us. God asks what it is He's made us to love, what it is that captures our attention, what feeds that deep indescribable need of our souls to experience the richness of the world He made. And then, leaning over, He whispers, 'Let's go do THAT together" (130). Can I get an a- to-the-freeking- men?! What feeds your soul? For me, it's opening the back door and hearing the trees, seeing some land stretch before my eyes. I want to hear a whinny in the background, for my children to sit bareback on their very own pony while I lead them around a pasture. I want a blanket in an open field, my journal beside me and a pen in my fingers. That is a dream that lies deep within my heart; something that has been a part of me since my earliest memories. But God called me to Louisville, where I graduated college in four years, have worked some really cool jobs, made my home in one of the worst zip codes in the nation, and it is here too that I feel at home. The neighbor boys come to our porch for homework help, they used to climb our fence (before installing a privacy one, oops) and walking around the park saying hello to the people in this community gives my heart an extreme sense of happiness. Home is here; for now. It is here we are raising our babies; laughing, crying, praying and singing- and I owe it all completely to HIM. Here are some sweet images we captured today, on the very last day of 2015. Here's to a New Year. One to launching this blog, writing more, baking more, and embracing whatever our Creator graciously blesses us with.