I'm not ok... and that's ok.

Birth trauma is a very real thing, so we are we so afraid to talk about it?

It's taken me awhile to be ok with talking about this publicly, but thanks to a friend who so beautifully shared her birth story (and who was so honest about the trauma she endured during the birth of her first child), I have felt encouraged to share my story. It is my hope that I, and others, may be able to find some healing.

I had just publicly announced my pregnancy with my first child when I remember being asked a question that caught me off guard. 

"Do you have a birth plan?"

A birth plan? Was that a thing? Was I supposed to have one? So, at barely 12 weeks pregnant, I laughed nervously and responded with the first thing that came to my mind.

"Um, well, I suppose he's going to come out."

And that became my standard response for the rather personal question I found myself encountering over and over again. But as the weeks and months sped by, I came no closer to having a birth plan. I decided I'd like an epidural, and I knew I wanted immediate skin to skin and access to my baby for nursing, but other than those details, I had little in mind as to what would happen when go time arrived. Looking back, I think my lack of expectation actually aided in what was an incredible experience. I had a rather unremarkable labor, and after 3.5 hours, I delivered a beautiful baby boy. The experience was nothing short of surreal, and I look back on it as one of the best days of my life. I am forever grateful for that.

So when I found myself staring down at a second pair of small pink lines 9 months later, I anticipated things would go much the same. I was overjoyed at the thought of another tiny human being to bless our lives, and I waited in anticipation of that day. Once again, the weeks and months sped by, and once again, I found myself with no birth plan. 

But everything was different with baby #2. Everything. While I enjoyed a fairly easy pregnancy with Wesley, Molly came with all day sickness for months, migraines, insomnia, heart burn, sciatica, and never ending food aversions. I found myself expanding at a rapid rate, growing more and more uncomfortable with each week. By Christmas I was anxiously awaiting my February 6 due date and secretly hoping she might decide to make her entrance a bit sooner. But when I woke up around 2 am on January 16 with what I thought was food poisoning, I was not expecting the roller coaster ride to come. 

I spent hours slumped over on the bathroom floor that morning, my 8 month pregnant belly wedged between me and the toilet. I cried as I wretched, my whole body aching. I crawled into bed and prayed to feel better as my husband tended to the toddler. As my body had rejected all attempts at liquids and, subsequently, pain relievers, I decided a luke warm bath was my best bet to ease my aches and lower my fever. I ran a bath and eased myself into it, listening to the sounds of Jesse putting Wesley down for a nap. I started to relax. I closed my eyes and sunk low into the water, letting my sore muscles release and my chills subside. For the first time that day, I started to feel better. It had been maybe fifteen minutes when I felt a strange sensation that I could only imagine was my water breaking. I was actually sort of excited as I prepared to tell my husband we needed to call my parents and head to the hospital. I reached for a towel and attempted to stand up to call for Jesse. 

I couldn't stand. I was weak and dizzy and beginning to see spots. I lowered myself back into the water and looked down. It was then that I realized my water had not, in fact, broken, but that I was bleeding. I watched as the water quickly turned red around me. I attempted again to exit the tub. I came to my knees, at which point I became aware of how much blood I was losing. I yelled for Jesse to come to the bathroom, and I tried to remain as calm as possible as I asked him to call 911. I was terrified. 

When the paramedics arrived, I was still in the tub, half naked and barely conscious. I lay there shaking as they fought to find a vein to insert an IV. I remember them telling me that it was ok to lay back and close my eyes if I thought I might pass out. Things got dark a time or two, and I rested my head on the side of the tub. They rattled off questions - was I having contractions? How many weeks was I? Was the baby still moving? I couldn't tell. I was scared. I wasn't sure if I was making sense. 6 or 7 men crowded into my bathroom while my husband and 18 month old son watched in terror. They rattled off some numbers and asked more questions - BP 76/40, how much blood has she lost? Then they lifted me from the tub to a stretcher and wrapped me with sheets. They carried me out of my bathroom and down the stairs, as Wesley screamed "Mama! Mama!" from Jesse's arms. I tried to reassure him. I'm not sure I was making any sense.

I rambled on and on in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. I ramble when I'm scared. I learned about the paramedic's kids, ages 14, 12, and 10. I'm sure I made some stupid jokes. I remember very little. They rushed me into triage in the L&D unit and hooked me up to monitors. I began to cry as I heard Molly's heart beating, strong. I began feeling faint again, and I rested my head on the pillow. The nurse came to check my cervix. I glanced up at her just in time to notice an unsettling look come across her face. She pulled another nurse aside. They couldn't see my cervix. I was still losing too much blood. My heart raced. I waited for them to tell me what would happen next. I closed my eyes again and tried to breathe deep. I opened them to a touch on the shoulder. The nurse had forms she would need me to sign. They were preparing me for transfusions, as they felt that was the likely next step. I was still bleeding. I asked if Molly was ok. They assured me she was. I asked them to find my phone. I needed to call Jesse. I was alone and scared.

Jesse came up from the ER waiting, at which point we were told that it was time. We were going to have a baby. They wheeled me to a room in L&D and began asking questions again. The monitor wouldn't work. They hooked up a saline bag and continued to pump fluids through my system. A blood pressure cuff squeezed my arm at alarmingly frequent intervals. As soon as the saline ran out, they quickly hung another. And another. 3 full liters of saline later, they approved me for my epidural. The anesthesiologist came. I felt the warm rush of the epidural, but nothing went numb. I waited. I pushed the button. Once. Twice. Three times. They broke my water, and I felt contractions tightening around my belly. I still felt everything. Quickly, the contractions grew stronger. They moved lower. Epidural or no, this baby was ready to come. 

I watched the Warriors game on the TV behind my husband's head intently and breathed as I was coached. My doctor wasn't there yet, and the nurse wasn't about to deliver Molly, so they reminded me again and again to breathe. Shortly thereafter, my OB arrived and allowed me to push. 37 minutes from start to finish, a failed epidural, and only two pushes later, I cried as they placed my perfect baby girl into my arms. She was healthy; apgars of 9 and 9. She was 6 pounds, 11oz. 20 inches long. 10 little fingers and toes. Awesome strawberry blonde hair. Perfection. My epidural kicked in.

As I held my baby girl, encouraging her to latch to my breast, gently wiping her clean, the nurses buzzed about the room. There remained an unsettled feeling. I was still not ok. The nurse pushed on my now soft belly over and over. She made concerned faces and reached for additional towels. I wouldn't stop bleeding. She pushed again, explaining to me that I shouldn't be losing this much blood. I studied the look on her face, trying to read her as she attempted to calmly tell me that I had passed a clot the size of a softball. They started a Pitocin drip. They administered several drugs. They needed me to clot. I wasn't clotting. 

They encouraged me to eat as we waited for the drugs to work. They continuously monitored my nether regions as they looked for proof of clotting. They pushed, and pushed, and pushed some more on my belly. I tried to rest as they took Molly to bathe her and run tests. I had a grilled cheese and an apple juice. I finally started to feel better. 

24 hours later, convinced all was well with mommy and baby, we were released and sent home to begin our new normal. We came home and spent our first night snuggling, dozing, nursing, wash, rinse, repeat. But, while things had looked good at 24 hours, life was not so good at 48. Molly stopped eating. She became lethargic. She latched to my breast and immediately fell asleep. Soon, she could not be roused. Her body was limp, her skin dry. We rushed her back to the hospital. She had lost nearly a full pound. Her body temperature was 95.7. Her billirubin was elevated. She was dehydrated. I was terrified. She had heel pricks, IVs placed, spinal taps, and xrays. I sat helpless as she cried out. They wrapped her warm in a billi-light. We attempted to feed her. They transferred us to a PICU. 

The story has a happy ending. Molly tested negative for anything scary. With some IV fluids, a warming light, and a couple days to hydrate and eat normally, she was discharged and sent home. She is healthy and thriving. She's blasting through developmental milestones and amazes me everyday. And yet...

I am not ok. I am scared. I am anxious. I hate to be away from her. Every baby sound, terrifying. Every cough, hiccup, gag, cry... my heart races just a bit. I don't sleep well. When she sleeps, I wake often to check on her. I have nightmares. I can't take a bath - the sheer thought ties my stomach in knots. The slightest hint of gastric distress and I'm back there, scared. But I have a beautiful baby girl, I should be grateful. And I am. I should be overjoyed. And I am. I should be enjoying every smile, every snuggle, every sweet smell. And I am. But I am scared. And that's ok, too. I'm learning to be ok. I'm hoping that sharing here will help me find some healing. 

And if you've experienced birth trauma, maybe I can help you find some healing too. 

Why I love the 'Dad bod'... and you can too!!!

“The dad bod is a nice balance between a beer gut and working out. The dad bod says, ‘I go to the gym occasionally, but I also drink on the weekends and enjoy eating eight slices of pizza at a time.’ It’s not an overweight guy, but it isn’t one with washboard abs, either.”

I have to admit that I giggled when I read this tagline at the top of a blog post as I scrolled down my Facebook feed this morning. I actually read it twice as I tried to come up with my own idea of what on Earth could possibly follow such a statement. While a small voice in my head warned me that it was likely 'clickbait', I couldn't help but follow the link - well played on the part of the writer. I was surprised to find this 'dad bod' trend is actually a thing, and apparently quite the hot topic right now. From Seth Rogen to Leonardo Di Caprio, male celebrities appear to be rocking the 'dad bod', launching its popularity among men and women alike. But with each article I read, what I found increasingly interesting were the seemingly unending stream of comments, both in support of and vehemently against what has become the new hot thing in male body image. People voiced opinions ranging from unashamed love of the dad bod to outright disgust, with many suggesting that if this trend made its way to the female population it would never be accepted - proof yet again of the male/female double standard and how society values women purely on an aesthetic level. Being a woman who has struggled with body image and the ceaseless battle to be thinner/tighter/more toned, a part of me wanted to agree with the latter statements. I mean, honestly, at 7 months pregnant, I am rocking a 'mom bod' and I have to admit I don't feel all that confident or sexy. Yet here are celebrity men with what could easily be compared to my baby belly at about 4 months cruising the beach seemingly without a care in the world. At least once a week I see some post gone viral on how 'brave' woman x is for daring to wear a bikini at her size or which AMAZING female celebrity dropped her baby weight in no time (although no one mentions the personal trainer 6 days a week or the personal chef/nutritionist or the nanny that allows all of this free time). Yes, society continues to trend in the direction of thinner/tighter/more toned for women, while 'dad bod' suggests that for guys, average/attainable/somewhat indulgent is completely acceptable. But that's not why I love 'dad bod', and I'm choosing to view it in a different light. Here's why I love the 'dad bod' (and I'm totally OK with my husband rocking it if he chooses):

Dad bod is confident. 
Ladies, have you ever dated a seriously insecure man? You know, the one who is threatened by your male friends and cousins, who hovers over you every time you check your texts/emails, who tenses visibly when you admit to having a crush on #7 of his favorite football team? It's awful, isn't it? Well, the dad bod trend empowers men to know that we as women find an average body every bit as attractive as a six pack and a set of guns (sometimes more). And for a lot of guys, that little bit of reassurance will go a long way.

Dad bod is strong.
My husband has a pretty awesome body. He eats pretty healthy, works out on the regular, and let's face it, genetics have been good to him. But at the end of the day, he isn't the guy who is going to spend hundreds of dollars each month on 'gainers', and he sure as heck isn't the guy who's going to pass up a good beer (or pizza, chicken fried steak, biscuits and gravy, you get the picture). My man likes to eat. And I LOVE that about him. We enjoy food together - all kinds of flavors, textures, and types. While I'm sure he daydreams occasionally about those six pack abs, he's much more interested in living the life that we live and enjoy. And yet, my husband is STRONG. Physically strong - he has on multiple occasions lifted me with apparent ease despite the fact I am in no way a petite woman (for those who don't know me, I'm nearly 6'1 and built somewhat like a strong safety). He can carry armfuls of groceries, fold a stroller or pack n play with little to no effort, and open just about any jar or bottle in the house. Mentally and emotionally strong - his priorities are on fulfilling his role as man of the house, with his focus on his health serving the primary purpose of being the best version of himself for his wife and family, not just what he sees in the mirror. It is this strength that allows me to be strong in my role as his wife and soon mother of our son, to embrace my femininity and grace.

Dad bod is real... and it's hot. 

Don't get me wrong. I am among the women who can admire a finely sculpted male figure. I follow Shemar Moore on instagram (the man is a champion for MS) and I have eyed the old CK ads with Marky Mark a time or two. But at the end of the day, only 1-2 of the men I have ever dated even came close to resembling that body type, and the ones that did? Well, they didn't last. I've found of myself, and many of the women I know, that the man we crawl into bed with at night is far more attractive us with his perfectly imperfect figure - we'd rather snuggle a pillow than a concrete slab. The trend of the dad bod encourages men to be real, and in turn, I believe that it will ultimately encourage women to be the same. Confidence is sexy ladies. Let's take a page out of the guys' newest book and rock our bodies as they are. 

Because when all is said and done, there's beauty in a body that says "I go to the gym, but I also love cupcakes and big glasses of wine." And I'm pretty sure that's what my 'mom body' says. 

Something for the ladies, but it's not what you think...

This one is for the ladies. Ok, so a lot of these posts are for the ladies. Mental note made to remedy this in the near future and provide something profound for the men. But for now, there's something that we as women need to hear. 

Ladies, it's time to stop.

I've seen, and read, a lot of these online blog posts/buzzfeed lists - "Things you need to stop doing in your 20's", "Things you should stop doing by the time you turn thirty", etc, etc, etc... You get the picture. Stop wearing yoga pants to the grocery store, stop using teenage lingo like "cray" and "presh", stop posting movie quotes on Facebook... the lists go on and on. But I've got some thoughts of my own on the things that we as ladies need to STOP doing, and my first thought is this: Stop telling each other what we need to stop doing. It's that simple. Just stop. Stop judging, stop criticizing, stop chastising. Stop competing, belittling, and tearing down. Enough is enough.

It amazes me that, in a society that consistently finds ways to lead us as women to the conclusion that we have fallen short, that we are so quick to tear one another down.

 **This is where this post gets extremely personal. Bear with me.** 

Please do not interpret this all as self-righteousness. I have been as guilty of this as anyone else. It wasn't until recently that I could come to terms with the fact that I have been a bully in my own right. In masking my own insecurities, I cannot count the times I giggled to my friends as we dissected the fashion choices of women we may not have even known. I have mocked, albeit privately, other women based on their appearances, actions, or public conversations. I have even dared to think myself better than other women purely on the basis of these (incredibly superficial) factors. 

Pretty messed up, huh? Not very Christian of me, to say the least. But even worse is, I know how much this sucks. It's been done to me. A lot. I have experienced ridicule and judgment at the hands of other women, some I knew, many I didn't. And yet, time and time again, I have found myself paying forward the mean and hurtful things that have been done to me, as if I am somehow entitled. I mean, it's been done to me, so I have the right to do the same to others, right? Please know I am acutely aware of this flawed line of thinking. And this is where I begin to introduce what I hope will facilitate change - change of thinking, changing of doing, change of being. 

The theme I find behind all of these "things to stop" lists is insecurity - I pick apart the behaviors of others in order to somehow feel better about behaviors of my own. Don't get me wrong, I've noted a gem or two in these lists that appears to stem from a good place. That is, "Stop posting drunken party girl pictures on social media" is sound advice. At the very least, your professional life could be in jeopardy if you choose to engage in this sort of behavior. However, "Stop wearing your gym clothes as everyday outfits?" All this suggests to me is that the person who wrote it is trying to feel superior because her daily get up includes the latest in fashion trends. If I feel fit and confident in my yoga pants and a tank, why shouldn't I enjoy that as often as I like? 

Ladies, we are bombarded in the media every single day with suggestions that we are less than we should be. You're too fat, buy these pills and shakes. You're too wrinkled, buy these creams. You're too short, buy higher heels. You're unattractive, buy this makeup. These celebrities and models epitomize beauty, but you don't look like them. Therefore, you cannot be beautiful. Try harder. Do more. Eat less.  Wear this. Buy that. It's exhausting. And yet, we somehow find the energy to tear one another down. What a waste of energy. 

Allow me to offer a challenge. Make a concerted effort to lift up your fellow woman. Compliment a stranger on her fun, patterned sun dress. Tell a coworker how much you enjoy chatting with her at lunch, that you love her perspective on things. Admire the confidence of the girl downtown rocking sky high stilettos. Let a girl friend know how proud you are of her for her achievements in her career/health/fitness/volunteerism/etc. 

Equally important, fight those insecure voices that urge you to snicker at the clashing patterns worn by the woman in the cubicle next to yours or to roll your eyes at the girl wearing a mini dress in the grocery store. Ignore the unimportant superficial details in favor of the bigger picture. 

And the last, most important part of this challenge is this: take the time to learn the stories of the women around you. You just might be surprised at just how much we are alike. Your story is what makes you unique and beautiful. Share that with the world, then take the time to listen to the stories of others. 

In a world that wants nothing more than to tear us down, be a part of the solution. Love yourself, and love others. More than you think they deserve. 

Confessions of a (former) fat girl: Things I never knew about getting thin...

Anyone that's known me for awhile knows that, if there is one thing in my life that has caused me more tears, frustration, and defeat than anything else, it is my battle with my weight. And not just my weight, but the way I feel in my skin, the way I view my physical appearance. I have spent over half of my now almost 29 years at war with myself, fighting what I have often viewed as a losing battle. I like to think that at this point in my life I am on the winning end, but if I am completely honest with myself, I know that this is a battle that will always exist for me and that the best I can do is continue to fight and to refuse to give in to those voices that will never be satisfied with the number on the scale or the image in the mirror. However, as I move through the stages of this battle, I find each stage presents with new challenges I never anticipated when I first picked up myself up and decided to make changes. I am learning things about myself and my journey every step of the way, and I am realizing that this journey is about so much more than 'bikini season' or 'goal weight'. So here there are, some silly, some profound - things I wish someone had told me about becoming thin when I was fat (and some things I was told but managed to ignore)...

1. Contrary to how you feel, food is not your enemy. 

Food is fuel, it is essential, it is the basis of all energy for everything you do every day. Food is also delicious, fun, social, and at times, comforting. But when I was fat, food was the enemy. Every meal was another couple hundred calories I could all but guarantee would deposit straight to my problem areas (namely, everywhere). I was terrified of food, avoiding it until I was ravenous, then binge eating whatever was available and required as little thought as possible, frequently fast food or convenience foods, aka junk. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. When I viewed food as an enemy, it indeed became an enemy. Eating junk, once a day, it's no surprise then that I found myself expanding at a rate exponential to the amount of food I was consuming. And so the cycle continued. 

As I began what started as a weight loss journey (it's become a health and fitness journey), the first thing I learned was that (shock!) I needed to eat!!! Eating a solid 3 meals a day, I found myself with more energy, and to my surprise, I was losing weight! I increased from 700-800 calories a day to around 1300 calories a day and found myself with success, but as I've increased my activity levels, I've hit some severe plateaus. It wasn't until recently that I became aware that I was still completely afraid of food. Thanks to some pushing from my coach at Synergy, I am now eating (yikes!) about 1800 calories a day, and steadily leaning out, losing inches, pounds, and body fat. It's not always easy to remember, but I am starting to comprehend - food is not my enemy.

2. No matter how thin your body gets, your mind will fight to stay fat.

When I weighed 250lbs, I wore jeans and tshirts every day. Over 80lbs later, I find myself continuing to be drawn to jeans and tshirts. But not just because they're comfortable or classic (I do love that) - I have been terrified of clothing for years (fear is a central theme in all of this, you'll notice). 

Not long ago, I walked into a clothing store attempting to add some more girlish items to my wardrobe. I absent-mindedly picked up some items that caught my eye and went to the dressing room, where I quickly became aware that I have NO idea what fitted, 'girly' clothes are supposed to look like on me! Trying on a bright blue pencil skirt and lace tank, I gazed blankly in the mirror, tugging and pulling, turning and twisting, wondering if I could ever wear this outfit in public. I stepped out of the room and, embarrassed, asked the attendant if this outfit looked right. My heart dropped as she giggled and asked what size I was wearing, to which I hesitantly responded, "twelve" as I averted my eyes to the floor. I almost refused to put on the size 8 she brought back to the room, but took a deep breath and shimmied into it. My eyes welled as it zipped easily and sat perfectly in place, two sizes smaller than I believed my "big ol' body" should fit. 

"FAT" is a feeling so much more than it is a number. I don't know if there will come a day that I will not walk first to the plus size section or pull size XL off the rack. I don't know if I will be able to eliminate words like 'giant' or 'huge' from my vocabulary in reference to myself. I hope someday my brain will catch up to all the work my body has done. That is possibly the hardest part of this battle.

3. Shaving is harder when you're thin!!!

No one ever told me that as your muscle definition increases, it gets harder to navigate the crevices, hills, and valleys with a sharp razor. Did you know when you're thin, your armpits get deeper?! Holy cow, this is tough! I never used to nick myself like this while shaving. AND, when you're thin and you wear clothes other than jeans and tshirts, you wind up shaving way more often. It's a lot of work. 

4. To have the body you want, you need to break up with your scale.

The number one, single most unhealthy relationship I have ever been in, was not with my ex-boyfriend. No, it was with my scale. A silly number, influenced heavily by SO many variables, was the value by which I determined my self worth for more years than I care to admit. At times in this journey, I have weighed myself upwards of 15x a DAY and based what I would eat at my next meal or how much time I would spend in the gym off of the number I saw. Eventually, knowing this was unhealthy, I eased off, relying on weekly weigh ins to feed my obsession. I've come to realize that this is no more healthy than my previous behavior, and am working to release myself from this emotional attachment to numbers. Strong is the new skinny, and I am working my body now not to be skinny, but to be as strong as I can possibly be.

5. The people who love you will love you at any size.

When I weighed 250, I believed that I was not worthy of love because I was less of a person. I pushed away those who might have, and did love me, believing I was unworthy. I was so focused on the things I did not love about myself, that I neglected to recognize the things in myself that those around me loved. I didn't take care of myself and nurture the qualities that make me a unique and lovable human being, and as a result I became cold, distant, bitter, and negative. I became the person I hated. But the people that truly loved me, didn't stop loving me. They loved me, and still love me, fat or thin, happy or sad, and whether I love me or not. 

6. Not everyone will celebrate or support your changes and success, and that's OK.

Along my journey, I have lost some friends. I have had people complain that I post too much about my workouts and weight loss on facebook, that I spend too much time at the gym, that I talk too much about nutrition and fitness. I have had others walk away and never explain why, although the timing seems strangely suspicious. I have had people, who were not making the same choices as I, attempt to sabotage my efforts for reasons I can only speculate. But you know what I've also had? Friends and family who have joined me on my journey, thanking me for giving them the encouragement to start a journey of their own. Friends and family who have consistently celebrated for me, near or far, and have encouraged not only my physical transformation, but the transformation of my health, mental and physical. Friends and family who love nothing more than to see me find happiness in my own body. When you find success, and you live it out, some people will find reasons not to cheer you on, but so many others will be on your side that it's amazing how quickly those not cheering seem no longer to matter.

7. Bathing suits and spandex are still scary.

I am pretty sure bathing suits and spandex are scary for all women (and maybe men, too), regardless of size. Any item of clothing that serves as a highlighter for the parts of your body you typically keep hidden is bound to be viewed as an adversary. You should never allow that fear to keep you from doing something you want to do. Buy a size and style that suits your figure and size, no matter what that may be, and ROCK IT. 

At the end of the day, I like myself better thin not because my weight gives me any more value, but because the lessons that I have learned on my journey have given me more insight and confidence. My battle with my weight is likely to be lifelong, but I refuse to allow it to define me. I work out to be strong, to be healthy, to have energy, to fight stress, and to feel good in the skin I've been given. To be strong enough to toss my nephews and nieces in the air and catch them, fast enough to run with my puppy dog, and to have the endurance to go on adventures with my husband. I eat foods I enjoy and I am working to no longer view them as adversary. My body is my temple, and how I take care of it is how I honor the God who has blessed me in countless ways. 

Things I wish my friends with kids knew...

I have seen a significant number of posts lately from young moms wanting their child-less friends to know certain facts and inevitabilities about their lives and relationships, and the ways in which having children has changed them. I have read them, and I do believe they give some awesome insights into the worlds of young families and the changes and challenges they face. As the hubs and I whole heartedly intend to raise a litter of our own someday, I think of it as a great way not only to understand what the large majority of our friends are experiencing right now, but to prepare for what will undoubtedly be our future. Then I got to thinking... as a person in my late 20's, married but without kids, there are things I would like my friends with children to know about my life experiences, views, and relationships. So until the time comes that we choose to join the ranks of you all in the journey that is parenthood, here are some things I hope you will take to heart:

1. While I cannot comprehend to what degree, I can appreciate that you are, in fact, exhausted. I am not offended if you decline my offer for coffee, dinner, a movie, whatever, in favor of an afternoon nap or an early bedtime. I know you are not exaggerating your exhaustion, making excuses, or blowing me off. It is really ok.

2. I LIKE your kids. I find them to be charming (most of the time), and I genuinely enjoy the opportunity to interact with them. You do not need to apologize that they want to show me every toy in their toy boxes or force me to watch an episode of Spongebob. I love the fresh new perspective they have on life, and delight in their silly stories and never ending questions - remember, I can send them back to you after they've asked me 'why?' for the fifty-second time. It's not so bad. Which leads me to my next point...

3. I will babysit your kids. For free (or a bottle of wine). I know that post-rugrats, you and your spouse have had little time to yourselves - or each other. I value the alone time I have with my husband, and I believe that you deserve to have that time with your significant other as well. All I ask is a few days notice. Bonus: kids are my living. I am quite good with them. Who better to babysit?

4. If you have invited me to your home, you do not need to frantically clean. I do not care if your house is unkempt. You have a family, and families are messy. Messy is real life. If we are close enough for you to invite me into your home (and I do understand this is frequently much easier than carting the kids around town), please know that I value my friendship with you, all of you. The good, the bad, the ugly, AND the messy. Sticky kitchens, unfolded laundry, and legos on the floor all come with the territory. I will love you whether your house is dirty or clean.

5. I enjoy hearing funny, silly, strange, crazy stories about your kids. However, it does not make you a bad parent if you would rather spend your time or conversation with me discussing things aside from your children. I will gladly rehash details from this week's episode of GoT or listen to you vent about the electric company or your nosy neighbors. I know that your kids are your world, but I also know that sometimes, you will need to talk about 'grown up' things. Just know that either way, I am here to listen.

6. Your children are welcome in my home. Please do not ever hesitate to accept an invitation to my home on the grounds that you are concerned your children may be loud, messy, or destructive. When I invite you over, I acknowledge that you have tiny eating, screaming, pooping creatures with you more often than not, and I will take all appropriate steps in child proofing my environment as necessary. Should something ultimately wind up broken or juice stained, I have no one but myself to blame.

7. I miss you.
While I am aware that your family is your number one priority and I begrudge you not one minute that you spend with them, I just want you to know that I do miss you. And when you should find the opportunity once again to join me for coffee, go out for a long walk, or simply sit and catch up over the phone, please know that I will be here. This is not an 'I miss you' to stoke the flames of guilt, but rather so that you would know that you are still dear to my heart and our friendship means as much to me now as it ever has.

Sometime in the future (not yet - don't get any crazy ideas), Jess and I will be among you, opting for sleep instead of socializing, trading happy hours for soccer practice, and replacing conversations of world news with those of PTA gossip and potty training. We will struggle to maintain some of our pre-kiddo normalcy, and we know we will be mostly unsuccessful, as life with kids will become the new norm. But one thing is for certain, we will be grateful for the friendships we have maintained with so many of you who have embarked on this journey ahead of us. Our relationships may change, but how we feel about y'all does not.

When did food become a four-letter word?

Alright, ladies and gentlemen. Straight out the door, I have a favor to ask. Can we all just agree to stop using the following phrases (and any derivations there of) in reference to how we eat: cheat day/meal, I was so bad, misbehaving, etc...??? Because, if we are being completely honest about the ridiculousness of this all, eating a cheeseburger when you are supposed to be eating healthy does not make you a 'bad' person. And who, might I ask, are you 'cheating' on? 

In a society where we can hardly deny that the majority of people are actively engaged in some sort of unhealthy relationship with food, it comes as no surprise to me that we find ourselves constantly shrouding our eating habits in negativity. What amazes me though, is that we do it with such little regard for the way that these negative, albeit flippant, remarks invade our thoughts and ultimately shape our relationship with food. What we fail to recognize (or perhaps we do recognize, but find some odd comfort in this twisted self-flagellation) is that these negative thoughts become words become beliefs. Translation: the more I tell myself, and others, that I have somehow 'cheated' or 'misbehaved' in my eating habits, the more I will buy into the fact that I am a 'cheater' or 'bad' or a 'failure'. These thoughts and words translate into feelings of guilt, regret, shame. I now face food as something to be either proud or ashamed of, dependent on the choices I make, and I tie my worth to these choices. If I have eaten healthy, I am a success. If I have not, I am a failure. 

Sounds harsh when you put it that way, doesn't it? But I'd be willing to bet, if you gave it just a moment's thought, each of us could probably recall at least a handful of times in the recent past that we've made comments to the effect of, "Guess I'm having salad for dinner. I was so bad at lunch; I ate 3 pieces of pizza" or "Tonight's my cheat meal - I'm having dessert." Surely when we say these things in passing conversation we don't mean them to be so brutal? But let's talk for a moment about the weight these words can carry....

Cheat (meal/day/week/whatever) - where else do we use this word? If your spouse cheats on you, that may be grounds to end your marriage. If you cheat on an exam in college, you may fail the class, possibly even get expelled from the school. An athlete who cheats is subject to punishment, and is looked at in the eyes of the public as having no integrity. We teach our children not to cheat - in games, in class, in life. Cheaters are not honest, they lack moral integrity. Wow... and you thought it was just a bowl of ice cream. "Cheating" seems a bit extreme of a label in this situation, don't you think?

And what about "bad"? Consider for a moment things you regard as truly bad. Chances are pizza, tiramisu, nachos, or hot dogs are not on that list. Ok, maybe hot dogs, but that's another story. You get the point. 

So I am asking, whether you are 'trying to be healthy' or 'dieting' or a self-proclaimed 'health and fitness  guru', can we cut ourselves some slack and cut the negative self-chat? Live healthy because you deserve it, and every once in awhile, eat deliciously unhealthy - you deserve that too. 

And no matter what you ate today, be sure to tell yourself something nice. You deserve that most.

oh, to love like my dog does...

For those of you who do not know, shortly after our wedding this past September, my husband and I made a decision to transform our little twosome into a family. While many (most) of our friends have begun having children, we decided that, for the time being, a 4 month old puppy would make the perfect addition to our life. We could not have been more right. 

First off, let me say, Hatfield believes he is a people. He has claimed full ownership of the couch and bed, LOVES to be carried like an infant, and demands that he know where both Jesse and I are at all times. Much like a customer that obnoxiously slurps his drink to alert a waitress that he is (ahem!) out of a beverage, our Hatfield will slurp his tongue loudly around an empty water bowl and gaze intently in our direction, lest we somehow not notice. He is smart, sweet, stubborn, protective, cuddly, and somewhat demanding - I guess he bears some qualities of his parents...

Being a puppy parent has taught me so much. In just a few short months, I have learned new levels of both frustration and patience. I have learned to tell the difference between when my puppy has to go to the bathroom and when there is a noise outside he would like to explore. I have learned new ways to worry. I have learned the pride of showing off a collection of absolutely adorable pictures to friends, family, and heck, even strangers! 

But I have to admit, of all the things being a puppy mommy has taught me, the greatest of these is love. Allow me to explain...

After dinner tonight, Jess and I settled in, he to work on some music and I to check my emails and pay some bills. Hatfield was, per usual, romping around the apartment, finding entertainment in all the things a 6 month old puppy finds entertainment in. As my fingertips tapped away at my keyboard, I was suddenly interrupted by a small thud on my right thigh. Looking down, I saw my puppy as he gently placed his favorite toy (a bright green rubber ring) into my lap and began to gently lick at my arm. He then turned a small circle on the couch and curled up next to me. Although he had brought me his favorite toy, he had not, in fact, sought me out to play. He simply wanted to be near me and to let me know he loved me.

Wow. What a thought. While I hustled and bustled about my "important" errands, offering only a passing stroke of the ear or scratch of the back to my puppy as I busied myself, all he longed for was to be near me. To love me and to enjoy my presence...

Lord, help me to love like my dog. Without selfishness or agenda. Help me to find comfort and peace and complete joy simply in the presence of those I love. Help me to offer the best of me to them, seeking nothing in return. Oh, that I may love like my dog...