"I'm the Kind of Girl Who . . . "

 . . . reads spoilers, but, don't worry, isn't the twerp who ruins it for others.

 . . . eats peanut butter straight out of the jar.

 . . . would rank hummus and broccoli as an all-time favorite.

 . . . fangirls like crazy. Don't get me started on Star Wars, Lewis, Tolkien, Gaiman, or Doctor Who.

 . . . in a past life, must have been an old British man with a monocle and glorious mustache.

 . . . needs gutter-rails when bowling and a major handicap when putt-putt golfing.

 . . . loves grammar more than she should.

 . . . absolutely melts in the presence of kittens.

 . . . accidentally dresses to match her husband. And vice versa.

 . . . thinks gators are scarier than sharks, so she'd rather go shark diving than swim in a murky lake.

 . . .  finds her soul deeply restored by the sea.

 . . . paints with her hands, loves the feel of the paint, revels in the mess, and doesn't paint enough any more.

 . . . wants to travel to Asia so she can play with tigers in the tiger parks and swim with whale sharks.

 . . . is trying not to waste any more time being afraid or procrastinating.

 . . . dances like a madwoman in the kitchen and freaks when the hubs sneaks up on her.

. . . gets super nervous listening to voicemails

. . . can't get nail polish to stay on her fingernails worth beans.

 . . . loves wrestling with her puppy.

 . . . takes too many pictures.

 . . . quotes too many movies, TV shows, and books.

 . . . thinks a good cup of tea is dew from heaven.

 . . . adores the color blue.

 . . . fancies walking in the rain with her face to the sky.

They call it a "cha-cha" . . .

source

I don't know that I'd call myself an optimist.
I've always said I was a "realist" . . . which, to the optimist, is code for "pessimist."  Maybe that's that's true, but I feel like a fairly positive person.
I can't help it if the most logical predictions are filled with my imminent doom.
Okay, so I'm a bit dramatic . . . And, cute as that quote is, I can't dance worth a flip.
Seriously, peeps, a drunk flamingo could cha-cha better than I could.

LIGHTBULB--somebody get a flamingo to cha-cha! Youtube gold, people. Flippin GOLD.
You're welcome.

Back to the point . . .

Basically, this past year, I have learned two things:

1. Control is an illusion
   Positive thinking gurus will preach that you control your destiny. So we obsess over it--we work out, we monitor our diet, our products, our friends, our education, our location, our career.  We make these lovely little bubbles.
   So I worked hard to build and polish my bubble so that it was the shiniest, bounciest, happiest little bubble of them all. 
   And then it got these little holes in it and started spinning on the breeze, sinking to the ground.
   I am not in control.
   And that's not a bad thing.
   In fact, it just might be good because I'm kind of a nutcase.
   So I pray and I trust and I work on my own attitude. That's all I can control, anyways, right?
    
2. The future cannot be predicted
   See that bit where I discussed my certain and future demise?
   Yeah, not sure that's gonna happen.
   It might, but I really don't have a clue.
   In order to feel in control, I pull from past experiences--mine and others'--to formulate the most likely future and course of actions to prevent or ensure that particular destiny.
   It doesn't work.
   I can't know how someone is going to react or feel or think. I haven't the foggiest how one reaction will lead to another or how it will all explode, implode, or just simmer into normality.
   I can't know.
   And that's not a bad thing.
   I don't know about you, but if I knew my own future, I'd drive myself nuts trying to make everything fall into place or fall out of place.
   Why not just let it happen? Do the best with what you have, and be surprised by the adventure. 

Because, even if it's scary and painful and everything else, it's an adventure, right?
And all adventures have dark, scary spots.
That's why they're called "adventures," after all.

 Just as we began to feel settled, make plans again, we are thrown another curve-ball.
Chris's job has given us a surprise that could either be very, very good or quite unpleasant.  They've decided they just might want him back in Florida--not for a specific position, necessarily, but they're just not sure they want him here. So he has a month to decide what he wants to do--he's come up with a plan, a rather daring plan, to try to stay both in California and with the company.
Chris is the only human being I know who seems excited at the thought of unemployment. He doesn't see it as an end but as  chance for new beginnings, a chance to pursue his dreams and something new. Then again, maybe we won't be unemployed and there will still be something new . . .
It's an adventure.

Me? Chris has a friend who sent him some links to help get us started as freelance writers.
I have no control over getting anything published or making any money at all.
What do I have control over? My own fear.
The terror that squeezes my chest every time I think about writing again. The fear that I have no idea what I am doing. That I will fail again and again and again. That people will laugh. That I will be useless and unimpressive and no good at all. 
You see, I used to write because I thought I could make something of it, that I was talented.
Then I read real, beautiful, life-changing literature, and I fell down and never got back up. These humans wrote things that wriggled into my soul and planted seeds--they burrowed, blossomed, and altered the landscape.  How could I hope to create anything like that? How could I have been so arrogant to think that I could even dream of scribbling words like that? Of those living, breathing things that leapt out of ink and parchment?
And so I tossed around the phrase, "I want to be an author or a freelancer" and thought I meant it.
But I never wrote a word.
I hid behind Netflix marathons and Pinterest and did nothing at all. For eleven years.
Because I was afraid.
I'm still afraid.
Typing this makes me sick to my stomach because I know now that, if I don't, I am a liar, a coward, and a sloth (and not the cute, fuzzy kind).

So here's to new things.
Here's to the present.
Here's to the unknown.

Here's to a grand adventure.
salute

Letters to Myself

Dear Six-Year-Old Me, 

I know that people think it's adorable when you answer the phone singing "Somewhere Out There," but it's not going to jumpstart your singing career. I know you'd like to think you're a "prodigy" (thank you, Oprah, for the term), but you'll learn pretty soon that you're pretty much average. But you keep doing your thing and having fun! Dream your dreams and soak in that imagination!
I'm glad you love Godzilla. In fact, you love him so much, he's your imaginary friend (though you'll rename him "Gadzilla" so as not to be "blasphemous" by your definitions). Sadly, the other children on the playground aren't as in awe of him as you are (meaning you can't threaten to have him eat them--they won't believe you). Don't say I didn't warn you. They also, tragically, will not appreciate your ten minute bathroom renditions of "Part of Your World." Sweetpea, just because the stall door is closed doesn't mean it's soundproof.
Also, just a sidenote, the boys your age do not want kisses. They enjoy them even less when you decide to use it as a weapon. Just a thought.

Dear Ten-Year-Old Me, 

I'm not sure if you've picked up on this, but the other girls your age do not drop everything to chase lizards and frogs.  Of course, you won't pick up on this for like three more years, but whatevs.
You've become obsessed with Star Wars and that is awesome. Keep up those action figure games with your brother. You'll be joking about those seventeen years later. "Bail out! Bail out! BAIL IN!! BAIL IN!!!!!"
Also keep writing those stories but avoid the blatant Disney ripoffs.
Oh, and, um P.S. Contrary to popular belief, middle school is going to be awesome. Seriously, they'll be your favorite academic years before college. So don't be afraid of turning into a teenager--you don't turn into a jerk. You just get super nerdy and have fun with it. It's fantastic, seriously. You won't have that much fun being a geek for a long time afterwards. Embrace it and enjoy it, kiddo!
P.P.S.  Use the talking storm trooper to barricade your room. Catherine hates it, and the two of you will share lots of laughs over it later. "HEEEEELP!!! THERE'S A STROOM POOPER!" Yep. Just like that.

Dear Fifteen-Year-Old Me,

Boys are stupid.
High school hierarchies are even more stupid.
Really, really, REALLY stupid.
I'm sure you've started to figure out that high school is not like those ridiculous Olsen Twin films you binged on over the summer, but, allow me to reiterate: high school is not a fairy tale.
At least you've stopped stalking lizards in the church landscaping. That's a plus.
Eventually, you'll cut your hair, get your braces off (then partially on, off, partially on again), and you'll ALMOST learn to not dress like a homeschooler. You will, however, keep on singing, playing the piano, scribbling, doodling, and you will soon have your life changed FOREVER in more ways than one:
1. You start reading Lewis again, and HOLY CRAP SO GOOD
2. You read Lord of the Rings for the first time. HOLY CRAP SOOOOOOO GOOD. Obsession material, even.
3. You decide you absolutely MUST study in London and visit Oxford because um, Eagle and Child pub, and um THE INKLINGS. And accents. Yes, definitely accents.
4. You'll finish your book, spend a year editing it, and then leave it alone for eleven years debating on whether you'll actual rewrite it or not (the jury's still out on that one . . . )
5. You meet your future husband.
No, it's not who you think it is.
Be ye warned: if male classmates ask for help with English homework, they're not doing so because they sincerely want a conversation for like the first time ever. They just want you to explain the symbolism in the poetry assignment they didn't read. You are being used. Smile coyly and ignore them.
But you won't.
You'll be too excited to be noticed to care.
And I suppose that's okay.
Oh! And you get to be a big sister again! Next year, you'll meet the first of your two new sisters. It's amazing! And, just a plus, they're pretty stinkin adorable. If you can, find an age-defying solution now. They just keep growing up . . .

Dear Eighteen-Year-Old Me, 

Well, now, we've had some adventures, haven't we?
You found the alcohol stashed in your roommate's dirty clothes pile (that's the last time you surprise her by doing her laundry, isn't it?), read Harry Potter, got your ear cartilage pierced (Dad argues he never gave you permission to do that but you know he TOTALLY DID), skipped classes, spent weekends on the beach in Pensacola without adult supervision, and have found yourself one of the few sober almost-adults on campus.  You've also discovered that there is way more of a culture gap between Florida and Mississippi than you ever expected.
Sure, your new experiences are mild and, all-in-all, fairly harmless. I mean, you don't do drugs, smoke, drink, or even date, but the fact that you're even in the presence of alcoholic beverages is such a scandal for you.
Keep up your gig, though. Your standards are weird, but, as much as you get teased for them, your friends adore and respect you. You'll be pals for ages. Plus you're getting a bunch of awesome stories you'll remember even if you wish you didn't. 
Also, take that link to your Xanga blog off Myspace. 

You know, the one with all your angsty, pubescent rants?
Mom finds it.

Most awkward Thanksgiving break EVER.

Dear Twenty-Two-Year-Old Me, 

Welp, you did it.
You studied in London (life goal! CHECK!)
You got your Bachelor's a semester early (life goal! CHECK!!!)
And you married that man. ( CHECK CHECK AND CHEEEEEEECK!!!)
HUZZAH!!! WHOO-HOO!!! HECK YES!! and all other cheering sentiments.
Don't worry--you guys will figure out how to work out the stuff that seems impossible. You'll go to counseling for it, but you'll make it. In fact, you learn stuff, get better at that communication thing. It's all good. It gets better.
Keep track of all those crazy library incidents--they make great stories. Like the woman who cast out the demons who stole her DVD, the fellow who wouldn't read the Bible because he'd seen the movie, the cockroach in the DVD case, the gentleman who told you that you should model for Black Man magazine, the flasher, and many more. Also, remember those ridiculous romance novel titles: From Here to Paternity and The Playboy Sheikh's Virgin Stable Girl especially (I mean, REALLY?!?)
Also, stop buying pregnancy tests.  Just because your period is two days late does not mean your birth control failed. Stop peeing on that stick! No, not another one! STOP IT!!!! You're ridiculous.
But don't worry about it right now.
Also, when Chris recommends hiking Lake Jessup instead of Blue Springs (because, um, MANATEES), tell him you will hike Blue Springs and ONLY Blue Springs.
Five miles is only a small number on a computer screen. Also, fourteen-foot alligators. Like lots of them. AVOID LAKE JESSUP.

Dear Twenty-Seven-Year-Old Me, 

Well, we've made it this far. Now what?
It's been the most challenging and rewarding year so far.
Sixteen-year-old Sarah, I hear you whining and I will kindly remind you that your hormonal teenage crap ain't got NUTHIN' on my twenty-six-year-old crap so SHUSH.
Maybe it doesn't get easier.  Maybe Chris's job never quite fits, maybe his ears just keep getting worse, maybe you never get this whole maybe-one-day pregnancy thing figured out. Maybe those relationships you're struggling with are never resolved, maybe you never get to say everything you've ever wanted to say.  Maybe there's never a house, never deep roots, never the standard American Dream nuclear family thingamabob. 
But you know what? That's okay. Who ever said you're defined by those things anyways? That they make you valid and valuable? They don't. 
Because life is an adventure, and any adventure worth its salt has tears and dark tunnels and the kind of uncertainty that makes you sick to your stomach.
But it also has sunshine, and a Hero who comes to your rescue, because, really, as hard as you try, you just can't save yourself.  Your swords are twigs and your battle cry is a whimper.  But you've got that Hero at your side, and He's holding you up, making you of sterner stuff that no dragon can withstand.
So drink in the sunshine.  Breathe in the beauty around you. Treasure the good relationships blessing you. Take the sweet, laughing moments with that hubs of yours and hide them in your heart. Pocket all these shining things, take them out when the road is dark, and marvel at them. Aren't they lovely? Isn't it worth it all just to hold these things a little closer? Oh, so very, very lovely.
The road is long and hard, but you've been given such gifts. There are always good things in the bad.  There's always light in the darkness, even if it's peeping through the cracks. 

Because God is good, so good, and He is so much bigger than all of life's question marks.

On Infants

I have a confession:

I don't know what to do with babies.
Does that make me a horrific bearer of ovaries? Am I disqualified?

They're adorable and I think they're great, but I have no idea what to do with them.
So I sit here while the people around me talk to babies, entertain babies, hold babies, change baby diapers, all that jazz, and I feel as awkward as a teenybopper at a middle school dance.

No, really, I kinda sit in the corner and watch, waiting for someone to, I dunno, toss me the child.  I DESPERATELY wish I were good at it. I wish I were that woman who begs to hold babies, who can't keep her hands off them.  Who breaks into song just at the sight of them. Who squeals over the tiny shoes and the gurgling smiles.
I wish I were all that because babies deserve that.  They are sweet and precious gifts, and I ADORE them. Really, I do. None of this is that I dislike them. I just don't know what to do.
I get all nervous and I have this sudden nagging fear that I am a clumsy bother, that it's best that I sit back and let the experts do their thing.
 

Chris's nephew, Reilly, was here for a visit with Chris's mom and sister
Yeah, I don't typically think about how to handle babies until I have one right in front of me.
He's a completely chill and adorable child . . . I just had no idea what to do . . .

Mostly, I just watch.
You see, everyone ELSE is playing and caring for the kiddo. He's peeking and booing with three different people at once, and I sit there thinking, "There is absolutely NOTHING I can contribute to this. Nothing I offer can improve on the fun he's already having."
The child begins to cry, and, as everyone else consoles him with toys and food, I sit quietly because I feel like one more pleading voice adds to the noise. Does that make me a terrible person? I'm not trying to just let the child cry. I just don't know how anything I do could possibly make it better. Four people calling your name instead of three? Would that really fix it? I want him to feel better, I don't want him to be unhappy in the least bit. I just don't know what on earth I can give that could add to the good things everyone else is giving.

I remember being really shy at first with my baby sister, Davie, who was nine months old when we brought her home.  I don't remember the transition between being shy and being her sister. I remember feeding her, changing her diapers, and playing with her like it was nothing at all.  She was mine. My mom gave me directions, and I followed them to a tea. I don't remember it being hard.  By the time Ellie came along, I was good to go.

They were mine. Maybe they weren't my children, but they were my sisters. I knew what to do. They needed me--my siblings and my parents. If Mom was momentarily unavailable, big sister Sarah was there to fix it. I had a place and a purpose.

Other people's babies? No clue.  I need like step-by-step instruction. I try my best, but I feel ..... I feel like I'm doing something wrong.

Toddlers I can handle. Adore, even.
Heck, I can even do teenagers.
But a wide-eyed, speechless, breastfeeding infants?
I have flashbacks to when I was fourteen and trying to talk to boys.
Oh, peeps, it's totally the same thing.
You go up to this adorable little stranger with baggy pants and try to start a conversation and all they do is gawk at you like you're insane.
SAME THING.

The hubs on the other hand . . . .

The man needs a baby.
I mean, for real, folks. It's freakn beyond adorable.

Canoe Beast

Peeps, I think we're finally getting there.
I mean, I'm like one step closer to thirty.

 Not that it matters to me, really --except that I've noticed these two permanent creases between my brows. Chris says it's because, whenever I'm thinking or focused, my brows furrow. He says that now they're stuck that way. I say I need wrinkle cream. STAT.

I mean, I'm only 27 now, folks. Don't the wrinkles wait another few years?
Oh, well.
No use fighting it, right?
 
To fully explain my birthday, we have to go back to our anniversary a year ago during which Chris bought a fishing pole which he used for our anniversary weekend at Sanibel Island and then never again.
Until this Christmas when he decided he needed a new hobby.
But you can't just have a pole, oh no. Fishing, apparently, requires a great deal of random stuff necessary tools.


People, you know that book If You Give a Mouse a Cookie? Or, my personal favorite, If You Give A Moose a Muffin?
If you give a hubs a fishing pole, he wants a tackle box to go with it.
If you buy him a tackle box, he wants lures to fill it.
And once you buy him lures, he wants a license so he can use it all.
Then he decides fishing by himself is lonely, so he buys his wife a pole and license so she can come to. The lures he's willing to share, but only after he's bought one or two of every kind after deliberating for hours.
And once you have ALL of that, he decides he wants a Craigslist deal CANOE to put it all it.
Once he has said canoe, he realizes he wants anchors, ropes, and wheely things for moving and using the canoe beast that only fits in your townhouse "backyard" on a diagonal.
And once he has ALL of that, you will inevitably never use the canoe because it's too much of a hassle to get it through your house and onto the car, so you just stand fish from the shore instead.

My husband is Grumpy Cat.
For real.

Well, darn it all, folks, I was not about to have that money wasted.
So I asked for an adventure for my birthday.  I wanted to go canoeing, a childhood favorite, down the Elkhorn Slough--a marshland where freshwater and saltwater meet.

 It wasn't until we were attempted to haul Canoe Beast on top of my car that I realized this could bite us in the butt.

BEHOLD THE CANOE BEAST
This took us an hour, folks.
An hour and a lot of blood, sweat, frustration, and trail and error.
BUT WE DID IT.
AND NOBODY DIED.

 I hadn't requested a birthday adventure in four years because the last one resulted in my screaming  nonstop as we "hiked" through a "trail" next to a lake and flooded riverbed that was famous for housing fourteen-foot-long alligators. I don't mind sharks, I love snakes, heck spiders don't even bother me, but crocodiles? They scare the crap outta me. It's the eyes. They just look deep fried in pure evil. That and the whole death roll thing . . . ANYWAYS, as we battled the Canoe Beast, I worried that our canoe's "maiden voyage" down the Elkhorn Slough would turn into another "Lake Jessup."




Peeps, I am thrilled to say that it was a delightful success. Even getting Canoe Beast off then back onto the car wasn't so bad the next go-around.
We had tons of fun.  The weather was PERFECT--sunny but not hot--and we saw sea birds, seals, and SEA OTTERS!!!
We did between 5-6 miles round trip and learned Canoe Beast is sea-worthy.  Trying to cross the slough from one shoreline to another?? Big waves. Like this fun "up and down" movement suddenly got so intense we thought we were going to broadside/flip/ruin my camera (come on, that's all that really matters . . . forget the freezing water and attempting to right Canoe Beast, it's all about the Canon, folks). Peeps, I have never paddled with more purpose and fervor than in those desperate, bouncy, damp and terrifying moments.

Just a tip: guys, if you ever want your woman to paddle faster, start shouting sexist comments about her uterus. Even if she knows you're joking, she'll get so furious she turns into a flippin paddling MACHINE.

We were almost ready to give up and turn around when we found OTTERS!!!
We found a group of roughly six otters (maybe more). They were so cute! If you were really quiet, you could hear them smashing rocks against clam shells to crack them open :]

Can I just say that it is SO difficult to take in-focus pictures while your canoe is bouncing on the waves? Because it is.

Those lumps are sleepy seals!
We tried to get closer, but that was when the waves got too intense and we thought they were going to tip us.
We did, however, see a couple swimming on our way back. One kept peeking over the waves to watch us and then followed behind us a bit. It was so CUTE!!!

This little guy got close enough for me to get a decent super-zoom picture.
His mustache whiskers, peeps.
I can't handle it. I wanted to squeeze him and cover him in kisses!

Reflections

The times when, maybe I should be blogging the most, I seem to disappear.
I have too many words, and I just can't put them all down. My brain spends all day putting emotions into thoughts and, by the time I find a moment to type, it's exhausted. I can only stare at the screen and feel blank.
Exhaustion.

It's not that things are bad.
 Things are just different.

We spent a quiet Christmas at home--just the two of us--then had dinner with friends.  It was lovely, really, very sweet and quiet. 
I spent New Years Even in the hospital then at home. You see, I FINALLY had that dermoid cyst taken off my ovary.  HUZZAH!!! As I type this, I'm recovering in bed with a movie marathon and my two orange furries snuggled next to me. It's a minor surgery with a quick recovery. I hope to be back to my old self in a week, two tops.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from us! Whoot!

A week and a half before Christmas, we were in Florida for seven days.
I don't know if it's home, any more. I call it "home" out of habit, but it's slowly just becoming, "Florida." We visited the family we loved, and I even had a chance to see my old students and friends from my school and catch up with one of my oldest, dearest friends over brunch.  We had a lovely time. I loved the time with my family and missed them the moment we boarded the plane to fly back home. "Home," you see, is becoming the little townhouse in California, with our little church and our little town and our furballs and our friends. It's so odd how things change.

Florida is a place that is bizarrely familiar and foreign all at once. We step off the plane, and I can smell the humidity, the moisture, the damp, sickly-sweet smell of green in too much wet. My elbow has an odd, reminiscent itch, and I find a mosquito bite. I haven't had one of those in nearly a year, but they found me. The little blood suckers found me.  I recognize the faces, the voices, the conversations. I miss them. I miss them dearly.
But it feels more like traveling and less like a homecoming.
It has nothing to do with the people--they all make us feel welcomed and loved and we hate to leave them.  I think it's the fact that we are settling in, becoming our own people in our own place with our own routine.

Annual Christmas picture with my family! Whoo!
Catherine, me, Chris, Matt, Ellie, Davie, Mom and Dad

Going back--even just for a visit--came with its own uncertainties. I seem to always find things to worry about, to over-think.


I was afraid of meeting Chris's nephew. Isn't that silly?
I was afraid because I'm not really a baby person. I always seem to hold them in the breast-feeding position which frustrates them and me. They cry, and I find myself near panic.
I was afraid because I knew how much Chris's clan has begged for a grandchild and, now that he's here, he is the star of the show. No, really, he is the STAR OF THE SHOW. I suppose that's normal, but I don't know.
I wasn't close to my extended family. I don't remember how they reacted when my baby sister was born seventeen years ago. I don't fully remember how they reacted when we brought Davie home ten years ago or Ellie seven years ago.  I didn't know what would happen if I didn't go berserk over him. If I would offend or hurt people. It's not him--he's adorable--it's me. It's my own issues, it's my own uncertainties around miniature, newly processed humans.
 I think I did all right. I held him, talked to him, talked about him. I don't think anyone knew I was freaking out internally.
But, yeah, he was almost in the breastfeeding position. That was awkward.

Photo courtesy of my sis-in-law
Eric--Mel's fiance as of Thanksgiving--Melanie, Chris and his nephew, Reilly, me, and Julie in front of Chris's parents' GINORMOUS Christmas tree.
Seriously, that sucker is like ten-feet-tall. 

Raw

Sometimes, it just kind of hits me.
Unexpectedly.
And it's the shock of it that hurts the most.

I was digging through the closet in our guest room, searching for some of my old teacher supplies to use with sweet nanny child, and I found something I had almost completely forgotten.
This giant red and blue pirate octopus.  This adorable stuffed toy that had made me squeal when we spotted it at Target. We had just had our first ultrasound, and Chris was all beaming and proud and wanted a photo album.
Because we had our baby's first picture.
The only picture.
But we didn't know that yet.
Then we saw this octopus.

I was a little apprehensive about buying it because it might not have "matched" the nursery theme we were considering, but Chris said, "Screw it. The theme is stuff we like. Do you like the pirate octopus? Good. Then it matches.  We're buying it."
Baby's first stuffed animal.
I carried it through the store like a six-year-old. Giddy. Giggling. My baby didn't even have fingers, and it had a toy. A great, big, happy, eight-legged buccaneer cephalopod. 

That's the start of an epic childhood, right?

Now, it sits in its Target bag, stuffed on top of a box of Christmas decorations.  It still has the tags on it. I don't even really remember what it looks like besides the colors. I think it wears an eyepatch. I don't want to take it all the way out, really look at it. There's no point.
Not because I'm not healing, and not because I'm bitter. Because suddenly it hurts badly again, and I want to cry.
I hate crying.
It's messy and vulnerable and upsetting. It's necessary, I get that, and I know I can feel better afterwards, but not that night. Not right then.
Really, there are times when I just don't think I can cry about it any more. I cried so much in the beginning, those first few months. I think I've allotted my annual tear quota.

Then I opened the chest of drawers, looking for a pencil bag, and, right on top, were the baby clothes my in-laws bought us, one week after our ultrasound.  A little pair of baby Converse sneakers (to match the ones Chris and I wear--we always said our babies would wear Converse), a bright green Saint Patrick's Day onesie, and a little froggie beanie I had picked out when we went shopping together. 
Laying on top.
Still with their tags.
And it hurt again, a little worse this time.

I shoved the drawer closed and moved to another.
Quickly.
It burned. 

It had taken me by surprise, you see. When I know something's coming, something in me steels itself. I didn't even realized I do that--prepared myself, put on an extra bandaid or two. Here, I had no time. I didn't even remember where we had stashed them.
Because that's what we did, you know.  For weeks after the news, we left the baby stuff out, on display almost, because we didn't know what to do with it. This odd mixture of a happy memory and leaving it because we didn't want touch it.  Then we hid it, because the house needed cleaning and I couldn't take it the empty cheeriness any more. It was over. There was no point. 

It hurt.

It's been almost five months. I can talk about it, now, without tearing up.  I don't make it a secret, but I don't go shouting to everyone I meet at every chance I get. It's not some badge of honor or agony or anything.
It just is.
In explaining my upcoming (at some point) surgery, sometimes I have to explain that it's the result of a miscarriage.
It doesn't hurt to say that.

It's just a fact of life.

It happened.

Then I see those tiny little things, and it hurts to remember how excited we were.

Did I ever tell you that we even bought a crib set?
I'm not a fan of most crib sheet and bumper sets--they just end up feeling cheesy, but I found one online that made me all giggly and happy. I could see the whole nursery--for a boy or a girl--coming together.  It was on sale, so Chris told me to buy it.
I did, ordered it from my phone right there in my OBGYN's waiting room before we went back and saw the heartbeat that first time.
That only time.
The set came in the mail, and I immediately called my mom and sent her pictures because it was perfect.

The baby bedding sat in the guest room, exposed, for a long time after the silent ultrasound.  It was easy to shut the door and ignore it. Then I grew accustomed to it. It was just part of the scenery.
When my mom came to visit, I took it out and showed her. Because one day we do want to use it. Because it's still stinkin cute. 

And perfect.
It's on a top shelf in our closet, so high you can't see it unless you're looking for it.

I think things are a little more raw than usual because I saw a hematologist to clear up the surgery bloodwork. You know, just to get a thumbs up to get surgery.  There were more blood tests. Once again, chatting with the pleasant lab technician, hearing that I have "nice veins," and watching the needle go in and fill six vials with the deep red fluid that gives us all life. My arm always feels tingling and cold afterwards.  I wait a week and a half, return to the doctor, and he gives me my results.
My blood, apparently, is an over-zealous clotter.
It doesn't mean anything about my health, really--it's a condition that appears and disappears without explanation, one that may or may not carry with it any symptoms.
I'm one of those without symptoms.
Except one.
The condition causes miscarriages.

So now we have answers.
It was my fault.

He tells me that it doesn't necessarily have to be this way, forever. That, if I take a baby aspirin a day while pregnant, I might carry full term.
That everything could have a happy ending.
The hope makes it a little brighter.

That, really, had it not been for this growth--this freak-of-nature dermoid requiring surgery--we never would have known about my blood. That we could have miscarried again and again and again without answers. Maybe we will anyways, but now we know why. Now we have a plan, something to do.

You see, there's always a plan. Something to do. Even if that something is just waiting.
Because God is good. All the time. Even in the dark, messy, crappy stuff. 

Life hurts.

Sometimes, it downright SUCKS.

But the hope of a purpose? Of something beyond myself?

It keeps me from curling up in bed and never getting up. 

It gives me the hope and the courage to keep smiling.

To talk about it.

To hurt. 

And to heal. 

To be okay.

I don't know my future.

Someone else does.
And that's more than okay. 

Life is still good because He is good. 

We have hope because He gifts it. 

We hurt, we heal, we hope. 

And He always is. 

And He is always good.

Even when we feel utterly abandoned.

Lost.

Crushed.

Defeated.

There is always light.

Somewhere. 

In the end, the middle, above, below, glittering through the cracks, sometimes so small you barely see them.

But light is always there. 

Because He is always there. 

Though the fig tree should not blossom, nor fruit be on the vines, 

the produce of the olive fail and the fields yield no food,

 the flock be cut off from the fold and there be no herd in the stalls, 

yet I will rejoice in the Lord; I will take joy in the God of my salvation.

God, the Lord, is my strength; 

he makes my feet like the deer’s; he makes me tread on my high places.
--Habakkuk 3:17-19a

To Christmas Card, or Not to Christmas Card?

THAT IS THE QUESTION!!!

source

You guys all know the formula: some day that's been marked on the calendar for weeks, Mom rounds the whole family up in semi-matching outfits and marches them outside for the best possibly lighting. There you meet a willing friend ("willing" meaning that they've either been tricked, paid, or blackmailed into the situation), or a professional armed with a camera.
And you pose.
And you smile.
Until your cheeks hurt.
Possibly both sets of cheeks if you're in one of those awkward squatting positions utilized to fit everyone in the picture.

Okay, maybe I'm painting a very negative image of the Christmas family photo op. Maybe some of you have awesome traditions taking candid photos. 

Or you love getting your picture taken. 

Or you just ALWAYS look great in front of the camera.

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Or maybe you're like my in-laws and dress up the pets because it's more fun and canines are more cooperative than humans.
Last year, the dogs starred as Mary, Joseph, and an angel.

Or maybe you're like my family.

Where Thanksgiving day, everyone looks their best--in past years, color coordinated, but recently not so much--and we all pose in front of the same set of bushes at my Aunt Sandy's house with my uncle snapping shots of all of us posed and smiling.

My brother, sister, and I start making goofy comments and laughing for two reasons:

1. It makes long periods of pretending to be happy fun.

2. You're actually seeing GENUINE smiles on our faces.

My mother claims our strategy makes for longer picture taking. 

And it's true. Sometimes, it takes an hour or more.

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 Chris ..... Well ..... Chris has never made a secret of his feelings towards the posed family photo. Over the years, you can tell how long we've been posing based on his facial expression. He begins looking a bit cheery and ends with a barely disguised scowl.

He really, really, REALLY hates long posed photos sessions.

It's funny because he loved our engagement and wedding photo shoots, but the moment any woman says, "Okay, I wan a family photo!"

He audibly sighs and rolls his eyes.

His eyes even have a sound effect.

It's the groan of bored misery. 

So, we'd kind of settled that we would never do Christmas photos or Christmas cards. It just seemed like one more chance to be awkward or pretend--Here we all are, looking our best, because we are totally this happy all the time.  

We'd possibly reconsider if, you know, our Christmas card were something like this.

source

Because Bill Murray is just kind of the best ever.

Then I found THIS post, and started thinking that, maybe just maybe, Christmas cards wouldn't be so bad. They might be fun even.
And then I realized maybe people really are just trying to get a nice photo of everyone together.
That maybe it's the only family photo of the whole gang all together.
Maybe it's the chance to keep loved ones updated--those who aren't on Facebook or online or anything.
And maybe it is just plain fun ;]

How about you?
Do you guys do Christmas cards and photos or not so much?
Why or why not?

Facebookin'

Peeps, one day I decided to follow a trend and make a Facebook profile for my blog.

I'm going to apologize in advance: the only thing that posts there are automatic updates on blog posts.

Basically, that new posts now exist.

Because I never log on and do much else to it. Because I forget. 

And blah. 

I don't link every blog post to my personal FB because well ..... I don't know. I feel like they're two separate entities. Most people I know personally don't read my stuff, and that's okay. Maybe even preferable. Oh, I'll link a post on occasion, and there's always a link in my ABOUT page, but only a handful of close friends, a family friend or two, and my mom read (HULLOOO MUMSIE!!!)

And I'm okay with that. 

It's almost more private that way .... Which is just weird because the blog's open to the whole flippin' Internet. 

What a weird concept. 

However, my personal posts on FB are WAY more frequent than my blog FB posts and, in their own way, a little bit funny. 

Or way more funny, since a little funny is loads more than no funny at all.

In response to a photo advert for Audible's "Fifty Shades of Grey."

So there you have it people: my life according to the facebooking interwebs.

We should be FB friends now, right? ;)

Beauty and the Pedestal

My mom likes to tell this story about me as a tyke, before fashion and weight and acne were even a whisper of a thought.

I am three-years-old,  fresh out of my parents' shower, and my mom finds me striking poses in front of her full length mirror.
In my birthday suit.
Proud as can be.
I had never seen fashion models, but, at that moment, you'd think I was rehearsing for my Vogue debut.
"Sarah, what are you doing?"
"Looking." I strike another pose, pause, and say, "Am I the prettiest?"
My mom's a very literal person.  So she thinks about it a moment and says, "Well, Sarah . . . You're the prettiest little girl to me. Every mommy thinks her little girl is prettiest."
I look at her--deadpan, irritated, incredulous. "So everyone doesn't think I'm the prettiest?"
Just like that, people.
Just like that.

I have no idea if I'm two or three here (probably closer to two . . . ),

Also, that Mickey went everywhere with me for a looooong time.
Every kid needs a good Mickey, right?

I don't remember where I learned what pretty was. I don't know when or how I had decided that beauty was the ultimate goal, but, at least by three-years-old, it's what I wanted. You know how little boys turn everything into a weapon? Even if he's never seen a single action movie, a little boy picks up a stick, and it is suddenly a mighty sword.  I think little girls are the same way; you put a little girl in a store, and she will automatically pick the shiniest, fluffiest, prettiest little dress and twirl.
We are born with our hearts longing for beauty.

I don't think society has to teach us that. It's the song of our little feminine souls.

Of course, society comes in, peer pressure, and the beast of comparison.
Comparison is like a drug for me: I hate it but I don't know how to function without it. I should, but it is a struggle not to focus on the pros, cons, similarities, and differences. It began as simple observation--looking and taking mental notes to learn how to look, speak, dress. To assimilate. And then it grew.

Once I was in high school, my already teetering ego took a dive because I was ignored by the opposite sex.
Tell me, why is it that the female self-esteem is so desperately linked to how attractive males find her? If you're religious, you'll say it's that whole "your longing shall be for your husband" curse, and if you're scientific it's all of that primal need to reproduce. Whatever it is, it's annoying.  To find your worth in a group of adolescents who laugh until they cry over fart jokes? Who smell like dirty shoes no matter how much they wash? And, for some bizarre reason, their attention can make or break your self-esteem.
It's the bane of pubescent females.

Females of all ages, really.

Eventually, I came to the popular conclusion that my body was all wrong. There must simply be too much of me to be attractive. Especially rump. I have always had a surplus of honkytonkbadonkadonk, if you know what I mean.
For years, I tried to vanquish it with diet and exercise (but not TOO much, because, let's be honest, I loved food and hated the outdoors . . . running in the outdoors especially, and, at the time, I was told that was the only way to exercise). Alas, everything would tone or shrink but that.
And yet, all I could think was, "If I can lose my butt, I will be thin, and they will love me."

Fifteen-years-old at one of my  piano recitals
P.S. Still have that cardigan. It's stretched with me.

After getting married, I put on roughly thirty pounds on top of my college years' Freshman Twenty. After three years of struggle and denial about my weight, we moved, I started working hard on my exercise, cutting portions, all that jazz, and I've lost almost all of the post-wedding weight. Freshman Twenty? I don't know. That might be here to stay. 
With all that, the thought still nagging my brain is "If I lose ten more pounds, THEN I will be happy with me."
Sometimes, though, I wonder if ten pounds is really an option.
You see, what the media never tells you--what society never explains--is that puberty isn't the end of physical changes. You go from a girl to a woman--a real woman--and then you create life (a wonderful gift), and it is possible that you will never look like your teenage self again.
More importantly, if you did, would you really be healthy and happy?
Or would it still be "Five pounds more, and I'll be happy"  while you wither away?


Part of my own issues, I know, stem in fear and jealousy. 
I know my gene pool.
We're curvy women.
We're women who bear children and wear the marks, blessed as they may be.
We're women whose bodies take time.
Me? I'm a woman who puts on weight just by looking at a cheeseburger for too long. 
I'm not saying that my weight issues aren't due to my own lack of discipline, but, golly, I was not handed the skinny DNA, all right?
So I look forward, hoping to one day have a successful pregnancy, and my mind always darts back to my pants size. "If I work out before and during, I won't gain as much, and I'll bounce back, right???"
My mind is constantly rolling in that direction.
Because I know I am not one of those women who just miraculously bounce back from things like that.
I can't eat whatever I want, whenever I want, and not exercise without wearing it. It's who I am. I am still learning to accept that. To understand that, one day, my body might not just bounce back. That I will probably never achieve my ideal self image. That, somewhere, left all on my own, I will always look in the mirror and think, "Five more pounds, ten more pounds, any more pounds. I'm not okay, yet."
And I know it's wrong.

It's funny--I can look at other women and praise their beauty, regardless of size, and mean every single word with all of my heart.  I don't think a heavier frame equals unattractive at all. These are GORGEOUS women. Women I praise and cheer on, even envy for their style and confidence. They wear they curves with Marilyn VAVOOM.
It's just that I'm not okay with me.

We are always our harshest critics, aren't we? Why?

 

With some friends for the Doctor Who season premiere when I was at my heaviest.

 How are we women so obsessed with weight? There are skinny causes, women-sized causes, somewhere in-between causes, big boobs, little boobs, butt, pancake, thigh gaps, super strength, super slender, before baby, after baby, new body, old body, the works.
We fixate on it in all facets.
If we're not bashing weight, we're praising it.  If we're not attacking it, we're defending it.
It's always there, this hovering minion that nibbles at our self-esteem or is thrown up like a shield.
I'm too skinny.
I'm too fat.
I love my body no matter what anyone says! That's the newest battle cry.
I'm perfect just how I am, and I love it.
How many of us believe it?  How many of us sincerely look in the mirror, smile, and proclaim, "PERFECT!!!" Not picking at every tiny flaw, every wrinkle, every scar, every hint of a muffin top, every too-slender thigh. Just looking, seeing, and loving. No hesitations. No improvements.


How do you get there? I want to be there.
I am so tired of this cycle. This round and round and round the bathroom scale. 
It shouldn't be about the numbers.
It should be about my body's abilities. Can I walk farther, climb higher on my hikes than I could before?  Is my heart healthy? Does it really matter if my thighs aren't rock hard or if my arms don't look "great" in a tank top? No, not even remotely.

I'm alive. That's what matters.

I never post mirror selfies, but, three weeks ago, I thought, why not?
So this is me, married weight shed, still wondering if it was enough.

Some people say the key to all this is to negate the concept of beauty. Praise a little girl for her brains and not her twirly skirt.  Read her books about strong women, and banish the idea of a pretty princess.  I don't think any of those things are bad on their own (I applaud tales of strong, life-changing females and brilliant minds), but, just like boys and the stick-swords, every little girl will find something sparkly and make it a gown.  I don't think banishing beauty is the key at all.
I think it's the balance.
Something, somewhere, has grown so totally skewed we can't see straight.  It's about the numbers or the straightness of a nose or the perfect color combination. Beauty has been put on a pedestal it can't possibly sustain. We claim it the key to happiness, and it's a weight it cannot possibly bear. It's tried, and the struggle has left it a twisted beast we'd never recognize. It was never meant to be THIS, this ultimate goal. 

It was meant to be a joy-bringer, an extra ray of sunshine, not the whole blasted sun. It's not fair to us or beauty.

It's about the existence of you--that you are not an accident. 
It's about knowing that you are a work of art.  You are not a mistake. Nothing about you comes even close to a mistake. You are phenomenal and you are lovely. Yes, even with all the imperfections that taunt you in every mirror and every photograph. Even if the girl in first period gets all the attention and your sister is effortlessly your ideal pants size. You are so lovely.
You are here for a reason, for some wonderful, brilliant, unique reason that only YOU can fulfill.
Yes, you want to be pretty. That's not a bad thing, on its own.  But is it the most important thing? To you? Who defines pretty? The airbrushed movie stars? The boys in science class who think picking your nose is a grand adventure? A machine without a soul that counts poundage? Really? Them? Oh boy, if that's the case we are in some serious trouble. Kiss society goodbye, peeps, it's not worth it anymore.


I don't have it all figured out in my heart.
In my head, it all makes sense, but believing it?  To look in the mirror every day and say, "You are not a mistake"?  That's a war that's raging.  Somewhere, I let my ideal image take the wheel, and it has crippled me.

Beauty was never meant to cripple. It was meant to enable.
To empower.
To make your heart sing.

When you look in the mirror, is your heart singing? It wants to. 

Step back, look past the flaws, and witness the incredible miracle that you are--of all the possibilities, the millions people and the millions of cells, these came together and made YOU, just as you are. It could have been anyone, but it was you. Perfectly and wonderfully you. You are not flaws, your weight, or your clothes.

You're a miracle.

And you are so beautiful. 

Catch-up and Mustard . . . or something . . .

Life has been weird. Good stuff, bad stuff, stuff I've tried writing about and then wondering if it should be just mine or for all of you, too. I can't decide. Maybe now it's just for me, but I'm sure you'll hear something of it one day.  Let's just say that life is not easy. For the first time in my life, I have little control of my own fate and it is unnerving.
But that doesn't mean that life is all bad or that we don't find love and joys in it. When things get hard, no matter how much you want to pull away, you have to hold even tighter. It's rough and humbling and sometimes the opposite of what you want to do, but you need to it. To hold on to each other and to the truths you hold dear.
Because life goes on and the story isn't over, yet.Thank goodness.

The visual summation of our relationship . . .
Okay, so this past weekend, we volunteered at a community outreach event. My job? Help set up a Photobooth tent and play photographer for any visitors and volunteers. So much fun!

I have all these post ideas running through my brain, some about life, some random thoughts, some getting back to my English major roots (are you ready for some character analysis??? Really?! Me too!! HUZZAH!!!). It's just all over the place.

I write them in my head, you see, while I'm doing the dishes and jamming to Florence and the Machine, and, I tell you what, they sound great. Then I sit down at my computer, and, golly, what was I going to say again? Has anyone invented like a thought-capture app? Maybe I should just narrate into a tape recorder or something and then transcribe it . . . or hire one of those court-room typists like that movie "Alex and Emma" (P.S. If you haven't seen this movie, go out and rent it now--SO CUTE).

I suppose, to some degree, I've been more absent, because, gosh and golly folks, I kinda have a life now. ISN'T THAT BIZARRE?!

I mean, really, I still can't fathom it.

 After eight months where walking the dog was the major highlight of my day, I almost have a life. I'm still not working (I've decided to try to job-hunt, for the time being, as soon as we get this surgery thing sorted and accomplished . . . I have never been so eager to have someone cut me up and dice me open, but, hey, let's just get this crap over with, right?), but we have made friends. No, really, we have.
Friends who like us . . . who like call me up out of the blue and are like, "Hey, let's do something in an hour!" So I rush to put on a real bra and out the door I go. It keeps me on my toes . . . and motivates me to clean the house more often.  Nothing maintains a tidy kitchen like the fear of filthy exposure . . . or something. It's so foreign to me.  Back in Florida, I had coworkers who were pals, but we were both pretty busy and lived across town from each other, so get-togethers outside of work were rare.  Other than that, we had family.  Family can definitely contain friends, but it's different. I can't explain it, but it is.  But now there are these people--people my own age, a few of them nerds, even--who want to see us. Like outside our mid-week church group and Sunday services. 

Last weekend, we had two couples over, and do you know what we did? Drank wine and ate fancy cheese on fruit like real, flippin, classy grown-ups.  I mean, really when did this happen? 
This weekend, I'm hosting a girls night with wine, dessert, and gourmet pizza with fruit and other oddities on it (why is it that fancy, grown-up foods must always combine fruits and cheese? Probably because it's awesome and it just took me until 26 to realize it). While we're being the grown-up kind of girly, the guys are heading out to go blow things up and cook red meat at a friend's place. 

When did this happen? How?

Because it's kind of awesome.
To have friends.
We had both forgotten how awesome companionship feels.  It's such a blessing, especially with all the stress and the mess that's been going on in our lives--the move, work, the miscarriage, just all of it. Chris told me that these new relationships are one of the main things really keeping him from trying to move back east. 
Because we had forgotten.
And now we remember what it feels like--to be wanted, accepted, to have someone smile and shout your name from across a room, to sit down at a dinner table with more than just us, to talk to other minds and hear other voices besides our own. To have that human contact--that connection--that all humans were made for.
We had forgotten.
Now we remember.
And it brings us smiles even when it's hard. 

Now, I need to go to bed so I can wake up super early and finish the laundry before anyone drops by . . .

More blog posts to come, I promise!
You few that stick with me, thank you SO much! Love you and can't wait to read more of your blogs, as well!

Have an awesome weekend, lovelies!