Learning to Love Myself

My mom’s group has recently started the Momnipotent study. This week’s episode started with this:

It reminds me a little of the time when I was single and trying the online dating thing. The site I was using at the time had you engage in compatibility Q&A prior to sharing your picture and personal information. Things were going fine until the question: How important are looks to you?

I couldn't even.

So I didn't. I closed my account, got my money back, and went on my way. Alone again.

The question was double edged for me. First, it could have meant that looks were important to the man asking. Second: And I? I was just average. Perhaps even slightly below average (a Perfect Four), depending on who you ask (me) and what mood they are in (insecure. Always insecure). Third, it could have meant that he was (heaven forbid) of even lower than slightly below average visage. And fourth, that it actually mattered to me. It was a sticky question that hit on all of my triggers. And, if memory serves, I was only able to answer Yes/No with no opportunity to explain. And there was plenty I could explain (clearly).

Did I digress?

So this Momnipotent session starts by asking about our self-worth as women and mothers. And this is definitely an area where I struggle.

Most of my life, I didn't feel lovable. I thought that if I could just find someone (not my family) to love me, hell even just "like" me, then I might be able to believe that I am lovable. That I am worthy of love. And for so.many.years. I went without.

And for just as many years--more, actually--I hated myself. I wanted to be someone (anyone!) else, so long as they were lovable.

Even since I've found the love of my life, the man who loves me back, I've continued to harbor this self-loathing. Because my exterior doesn't meet my definition of beautiful. I hate. I judge. I continue to fail.

And what's more, I have already seen the Mayor expressing that he doesn't feel lovable. And I know he has picked that up from me, whether or not I express it outwardly. These tiny human mirrors can pick up on the tiniest of details!

So it's time that I work harder to fix the broken me. It's time that I learn to love me, the whole me. The me that promoted me to my most coveted job and vocation in life: mom. The me who carried two beautiful, healthy babies with ease. It's time to believe that I am a beautiful and should treat myself as such.

What are ways you celebrate your beauty?

Looking a Gift Horse in the Mouth

Closure.

It’s what everyone wants, right? All your feelings wrapped up in understanding and tied with a neat bow.

I got a good chunk of closure this week. Although I couldn’t help wondering: is this that part of the 12-step program where we’re making amends? It was certainly cathartic as is unfolded.  I mean, it made me cry a little.

So why do I want to return this unexpected little gift? Am I so broken inside that when one little chamber of hurt is repaired, my heart goes into rejection? Don’t I want to feel whatever the opposite of hurt is?

I had long ago made peace with the situation, which I guess I thought was my closure. But in reality, I just shut up the room where this hurt lived and sealed it off, hoping to never feel from it again. And maybe that’s what I’m processing – the feeling of an old wound finally given the right treatment to heal.

It leaves me wondering: what would happen if actually tried to heal all of the sealed chambers in my heart? (There are a lot of them).

Thankful Thursday

Every Thursday in November I will be giving thanks!

Today I’m thankful for unanswered prayers.

And boy howdy, have I had a lot of them.

I agonized so much of my life away over boys, over being thin, over being accepted and loved. And as a girl I prayed hard, pleading with God to help me with these things. It was hard to understand why my prayers went unanswered (some still to this day…I’m looking at you Thin).

I’m thankful that He has a plan for me. I may not always understand it in the moment, but all I need to do is look at the man sitting next to me and our two kids to be reminded to have faith. God knows what I need and just when I need it.

My Voice

I have a very difficult time with censorship. More specifically, self-censorship. And I think this stops me from being an authentic me, as They say, when I write. The one time I completely put myself out there, airing some feelings about something difficult that I was going through as a veiled way to ask my audience (read: friends) for their support.

It backfired.

So I’m gun shy. And that’s something I want to get over. But I’m a people pleaser by nature, so I’ll have to ultimately make peace with not giving a damn one way or another.

Brass tacks, I want my writing to entertain and amuse people. So I try to weave in pop culture references with mixed metaphors and humor. Always humor. And, even if my Fella doesn’t always laugh along, I find myself hilarious, as do others, so there’s that.

My biggest concern is for sounding too much like someone else already out there. Like Martha vs. Gwyneth and Martha vs. Blake, I don’t want others thinking that I am trying to sound like so-and-so or emulate whatshername. Like, trying to spring board off of someone else’s success, riding coattails, and all that.

So where does that bring me? Back to just being me, I guess.

Who knew that would be so hard?!

The Palmolive* Dish Choir

You know it as The Most Wonderful Time of the Year. All the holly and jolly and all the rest. I’m a sucker for nostalgia, so it’s no wonder I think Christmas is the best. I never had a Christmas I didn’t like, even if there were a few angsty ones peppered in my teens and twenties.

But the most memorable thing about the holiday was family. There was a Swedish celebration on Christmas Eve at my Farmor’s house. I’m not sure who half the people were at the party, but I’m told that most of them were relatives of some degree. And did she even pull out all the stops in her tiny Chicago bungalow kitchen. Meatballs, ham, Pepparkakar cookies, fried anise bread rolled in sugar. And her punch: TDF.

Besides all that, we got presents. On Christmas Eve! The Swedish tradition is that the children get their presents the night before Christmas. A little elf-like creature, Tomtar, hides them. I didn’t know that at the time, but didn’t care because PRESENTS!

So not only did we get to get our Swede on on Christmas Eve, we got to do it all again the next day after Santa came!

Christmas Day (after the whirling dervish of wrapping paper and toys ended) was spent at my Aunt’s house with my mom’s family. There were a few more presents, but mostly just hanging with my cousins and asking for sips of beer from anyone who would share.

Of course, there was more food: a turkey dinner! And afterwards, the men would settle in at the cleared dining room table to play cards (my Grampa was a big card player) while the women “retired” to the kitchen (a woman’s work, and all).

But this was my favorite time and makes for my favorite holiday memory. Sitting in the kitchen with my mom, aunts, and teenaged cousin while the dishes were washed and dried, we sang our hearts out. We were no Lennon Sisters, but the drinks had been flowing enough that the no one seemed to notice. And the laughter that came with it—I can hear my mom’s whooping laugh now.

And although I don’t think it helped me perfect any Christmas Caroling, it was a tradition that bonded us together.

The family has scattered the country now and when we have been lucky enough to be together at Christmas or even Thanksgiving, I have found that the tradition that closely knit us together once, has sadly been torn asunder by the automatic dishwasher.

*I do not know what brand of dish soap my aunt used. And Palmolive, I’m sure, is a registered mark of its owner, who is not me. They are also not affiliated with this post in any manner.

Welcoming Our Girl

It was the moment I had been waiting 9 months to happen. The contractions woke me early Sunday morning. Because I they hadn’t started on their own the first time around, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but their arrival was unmistakable.

Now the waiting game had hit a fevered pitch. Yet all I could do was, you know, wait some more. I downloaded a contraction timing app for my phone. I probably packed something resembling a hospital bag (I’m not real high maintenance about these things). I went about my regularly scheduled business.

Like the contractions, Sunday came and went like clockwork. I’m not sure home much sleep I actually got that night, but things were moving right along.

Then the sun came up, apparently signaling to the contractions that it was time to back off a little bit. So, off to school went the Mayor. And about my business went I.

Monday afternoon, I had a NST scheduled since we were already well past girl-girl’s due date. I laid back in a chair, they hooked me up to some thingamabob and waited to check for Miss Thang to kick a bunch of times within a certain timeframe. Miss Thang must have been power-hibernating in anticipation of her imminent journey, so they sent me back for an ultrasound. (She was fine).

Contractions continued through the afternoon, getting stronger and closer together. I continued to wait.

After the Mayor went to bed, Fella and I settled in for Monday night TV: The Following. I’m not sure what had my attention more, the tele or the timer app. But as the 10 O’clock news started, I said to Fella: “I think we had better make some calls.”

I called my doctor (who promptly ordered me to the hospital) and Fella called his mom to come stay over with the Mayor. The waiting was over?

Pshaw.

The drive to the hospital? BRUTAL. Riding in a car through contractions is no joke. I had read that somewhere on this vast www, so it was expected. And I thought I had asked Fella to drive gently, but apparently I didn’t emphasize it enough. I suppose I should have asked him to intuit when the contractions would hit and stop in the middle of the road until they passed. Because, duh.

Somehow we made it to the hospital, got checked into L&D, received my ball gown for the affair (the chic open-backed kind!) and plugged in. Since my first delivery was by caesarian, there were concerns of related complications, I was immediately hooked up to monitors while I waited some more.

Night turns into morning and as soon as the sun is up and those pesky contracts slow down. AGAIN!?! There’s no way I’m leaving the hospital, so it’s time for the god awful good stuff: pitocin. It’s white knuckle time.

At some point they bring me a glider because I just cannot be in the craftmatic adjustable hospital bed and endure the pain post-pitocin. And my birth partner? He’s zonked out on the pullout chair these facilities are outfitted with.

I’m not entirely sure how long this lasts, but all too soon the nurse is back to give me more.

“HA HA HA. No.” My exact words to her. It’s epidural time, y’all.  

The anesthesiologist arrived faster than I expected. And as soon as I was comfortable, Fella high-tailed it out of the hospital to get some grub. I tried to convince him to grab some oatmeal from just down the road at Peets, but instead he went all the way home. When he left the hospital, I was only dilated 4cm.

My doctor seemed convinced that I was going to wind up having another c-section because my babies are on the big size. Not a fan of this attitude, I ask my daytime L&D nurse what gives after generations of women on both sides of my family have birthed big babies without incident. She explains all the things that my doctor didn’t do after the Mayor was born to determine if I was not physically able push my puppies out.

It was nearing Noon, the nurse checks out all the things, tells me I’ve got good birthing hips (so-to-speak) and updates my status: dilated to 7cm. Fella’s going to be surprised at the progress!

But where is Fella? Oh right, home.

He shows back up sometime after Noon. And so does my doctor, who checks me again and estimates that the wait is almost over. But first—we wait.

Within an hour, the room is prepped for delivery. And I am pushing. And watching in a mirror, at first to make sure my push technique is right, but ultimately, I end up watching Miss Thang being born. I swore that was of ZERO interest to me. It was, admittedly, pretty interesting after all.

And so Miss Thang came into this world without much fuss and clocked in at 8lb 11oz. She shares her day with her Great Gramma B, 96 years apart.

Edit: Miss Thang is actually over a year and a half now, so this recap was long overdue. To whom? I don't know, other than myself, I guess!

Back In The Saddle (Again?)

Hey. It’s been awhile.

So here’s what I’m going to do: NaNoBloPoMo.

I know. I’ve tried this before and it didn’t go so well.

You see, I need to get the writing juices flowing again. I mean, seriously. Juices? Ew.

So bear with me and my I-don’t-have-anything-interesting-to-write-about days (you know, ALL of them).