loyalty can just be bad boundaries!

I value loyalty. I excel at it. I modeled it. I strive to achieve more of it. Because, loyalty shows your strong moral character. Loyalty proves you’re reliable. Loyalty shows your dedication. Loyalty means you’re dependable. Loyalty means you can be trusted. Then, I recently had one of those lighting bolt epiphany moments that are so fun. Housekeeping note, I’m only talking about interpersonal relationship loyalty. Loyalty can take many forms (country, brand, etc etc). During this essay, remember I’m referring to interpersonal relationship loyalty.

My Facebook feed can bring me so much joie and so much grief. I can roll my eyes at Facebook or it can take my breath away. This day, I was struck by a photo of a hallway that was painted gallantly promoting this sentence:  The most dangerous phrase in the English language is “we’ve always done it this way”. Yes, sentences like that can take my breath away these days, side effect of personal growth! 

This phrase “We’ve always done it this way” is the exact moment loyalty goes wrong. It’s loyalty gone too far. It’s loyalty without progress. It’s loyalty without nuance. Now, we’re in dangerous territory. We’re flying blind. We’re *doing this* just because we’ve always *done this*. When loyalty is blind, it can not see the nuance, the grey, and the details of life. Loyalty exists in a vacuum when it is unquestioned. When loyalty demands us to be blind, we can not see.

I am guilty as charged. I’ve done this on so many levels. I’ve followed my dutiful loyalty down dangerous roads that have paralyzed my own life in order to be loyal to a person, place, or thing. Because, I forgot the first rule of loyalty. Loyalty must be given to yourself first. Much like love and care, those things start at home. I can’t be loyal in a healthy manner to anyone or anything, till I’m loyal to my time, my interests, my hobbies, or my family. I can’t give you loyalty at the sake of mine. Well, I can. And I have. Turns out, it’s unsustainable. 

“Loyalty can just be bad boundaries!” I proudly proclaimed to myself. Put that on a mug! That’s the full epiphany I had last month. Loyalty can be bad boundaries. What a relief it was to put these thoughts together. For some people, this will not be a revelation. I’m envious of you. You prolly floss on the regular too. (If you floss and knew this about loyalty, send me a DM with more of your pro tips.) I couldn’t see that I was forsaking myself and my values because I packaged it as being loyal. Because we’ve always been this way....or we’ve always done it this way.... or because that’s how it is. Bologna, all of it. 

Hear me now; “this is not serving me, why am I doing this?” I am taking time to examine my intentions behind my loyalty to things. If I have a bologna answer to my intentions, I’m making adjustments.

princesses don’t wear glasses

Unapologetically, my body image struggles have been minimal. I don’t long for my high school body. I don’t keep my “skinny clothes”. I order the burger, no bun (because of celiac, I’m not watching my carbs). I accept my body, with loving kindness. At the age of 38, I started wearing 2 piece bathing suits! These days I keep a food log and I regularly exercise but I don’t diet. I love my hips. My butt is round and still perky! I have a couple small demons, sure, but I also have a big one: My four eyes.  

I have vacillated over the years between sheer hate of my glasses and mild acceptance of them. I’ve never loved them. I was prescribed glasses when I was 5. The year was 1984. 35 years ago, glasses were not a common thing for children to wear. Sure today, my 7 year old daughter’s classroom is 25% glasses wearers including her! I definitely did not have that strength in numbers, as a child. 

Back then, I was given pity for my glasses. I earned that pity. The frames were mostly gargantuan for my face, as child sized glasses did not exist. For a brief period of time, I had the same frames as Estelle Getty’s character from Golden Girls. I have no idea of the dollar cost of my glasses but I know the fear of money was put into my soul regarding my glasses. I COULD NOT LET ANYTHING HAPPEN TO THEM, above anything else. I valued their safety over my own. I never broke a pair of glasses. Glasses intact, spirit broken. 

I have a strong near sided prescription and an astigmatism in each eye. I was wearing magnifying glasses over my eyes. Every photo of me has a yellow flash reflection on my coke bottle lenses. Studio lighting of school photos produced dark circles under my eyes. I was so ashamed of my glasses and hated them. I hated myself because I could not escape my glasses. 

My grandmother offered to pay for Lasik surgery when Lasik hit the scene, back in the 90s. I was scared to death of lasers in my eyes and politely declined. Lasers were strong than my self loathing! Now I know, they could not have fixed my prescription back then. I might not even be a candidate today. I *might* have the kind of astigmatism that can’t be fixed by Lasik. I’d have to get a real consult to know for sure but that was the last caution from an optometrist. 

I’m pretty sure my grandmother was my advocate and helped convince my parents to allow me contacts. At the tender age of 12, I was allowed to be fitted for contacts. It was a long process that started with hard contacts and the requisite little blue plunger to remove them. I inevitably lost the contact in my eye, up under the lid. Nightly tear filled sessions that could last for an hour, to get that little hard blue circle out of my eye. I persevered because anything was better than my Golden Girl glasses. I had the determination of a pubescent girl who could change the way she saw herself. I could have powered our house with the energy I was willing to put into wearing contacts. 

Eventually, I got the hard lenses to work. No one seemed to notice. One teacher pulled me aside, Ms. Black, she whispered, “did you get contacts?” I said yes. She congratulated me and that was the only acknowledgment. I wanted to scream over the intercom, “I feel so much better!” I was screaming it on the inside. I entered the 8th grade and then high school with a little less self loathing. My prescription eventually could be produced in a soft lenses. Soft lenses were even easier! I remember a time in my 20s that I didn’t even keep a pair of glasses for nighttime. I’d wear contacts from waking moment to sleeping moment. No one would get to see my 4 eyed vulnerability. 

“Princesses don’t wear glasses”, Mabel proclaimed to me this summer. In my line up of daughters, the last one is the princess girl. It’s in her marrow. It’s nothing I’ve forced on her. In fact, I’ve had to reign in my side eye to little girl princess culture, because here it is, in my house. It’s in my little girl. Her statement is the catalyst to write about the subject. I said “well, Mabel they can but you’re right, they often don’t.” 

Of course she is equating princesses with ultimate femininity and glamour and she knows that glasses don’t fit that mold. A quick google search will show you that Oprah and Meryl Streep are the female celebrities who will rock a bespectacled red carpet look. There was a week in 2014 when it was in vogue to wear glasses to a red carpet, according to Glamour. Google also showed me lots of photoshopped cartoon princesses with glasses; Elsa sporting Clark Kent frames in her castle of ice. I also found 2 children’s books written about “princesses DO wear glasses”. But, as much as these “rah rah” affirmations that glamour and glasses can co-exist, that’s all it is. Just rah rah affirmation. “Yes, you can girl!” No one actually does it....

Glasses, in pop culture, are reserved for a few roles. The nerd roles. Or the scientist. The bookworm. The librarian. And the old. The look and stereotype started with Velma and continues today in Disney tween programming. Geek chic has brought more 4 eyed characters onto screens but that’s where it ends. Geek chic. Not real chic. 

I have no insightful answer here. I was struck when my kid shared her insightful thoughts with me. I then thought about what wearing glasses has meant to me. It’s undoubtedly something I’ve struggled with. And continue to. I will not wear glasses for anything formal. I will not pair make up and glasses. My glasses have baggage. That kind of deep childhood / identity baggage that is wrapped up in too much to unravel. The kind of baggage has been around so long, that you long ago accepted it. I have glasses. I’ve had them for as long as I have memories. I’ve never loved them. I never will. And that’s okay. . 

pimples and wrinkles

Yesterday I went to my kid’s middle school open house. I was older than most of her teachers. This has happened to me before. I’ll find myself older than lawyers, doctors, dentists, some exectuives, etc., all positions that I equate with age and maturity. You’re a lawyer and I’m older than you? But lawyers are old. How can I be older than someone who is a lawyer? I remember when Ferris Bueler seemed old to me. I know the years have been ticking by, I know my daughter will be 12 later this year. But when did I become middle aged? How did I get from 25 to 40? 

Wait....It must have been the Clarks and Comfortivas. I have wide feet, I can now accept that. I also have a sense of style and loathe ugly shoes. Nordstrom is my honey hole for shoes that fit me and have style. Within the Nordstrom wide foot world, Clarks and Comfortiva are brands I’ve made repeat purchases from. Anything ending in -tiva is definitely middle aged. 

It must have been the retinol cream. Really, any night cream or serum will get you entry into middle age. 

It must have been the minivan. I recall the conversation I had with my husband about wanting a minivan. I told him I wanted to trade in my full size van for a minivan. He was on board with the full size party wagon kinda van but this “mini” business, he was sure that was below his cool threshold. I no longer gave AF about the image of driving a minivan. “Give me doors that I can close with a button!” Was my battle call. IDGAF is the subtitle of middle age, I’m assuming this continues as we age even more. 

It could have been when I turned on the enlarged text on my iPhone about 4 years ago and never went back. Do you know about that? It’s under “accessibility” and I highly recommend it. You can read my texts from across the table. I’ve worn glasses my whole life (5 years old), so it’s not that I’m denying my failing eyesight. It’s easier to read when it’s bigger, that’s just a fact. Middle age likes to embrace ease. 

It was definitely the fanny packs. I have a brown leather one. I have a black leather one. I have a clear plastic one from a Katy Perry concert. I have a fashionable one that can be dressed up. None of these purchases were made with ironic intention. I was around for the first go around with fanny packs, I loved them then and I love them now. 

It could be that I wear a hat when I’m in the sun now. I wear sunglasses every day of the year (hello blue eyes and their sensitivity) but, I want shade if I’m in the sun. It’s no longer negotiable. Sunglasses and hats. 

It also was definitely when my husband and I made the pact that we don’t go anywhere unless we know we can sit. You think I’m kidding. We will bring chairs to my friends’ house for outdoor hangs, just in case. Oh, and are we picky about our damn lawn chairs? Yes, yes we are. Recently my husband and I went to a free show at a bar in our new town. We could NOT find a seat. Every stool and chair was taken. My lower back y’all! I was distracted the entire time trying to finagle a seat and contemplated saying “let’s just go” many times. That night was a great reminder of my chair compromise. I’m not willing to compromise having a chair.

Saying things like “my lower back y’all!”definitely guarantees entry into middle age. 

It must have been when I made my sleeping decree, “we will no longer spoon to sleep”. Sometime last year, I woke up one morning with a crick in my neck. I made a last minute massage appointment and got it worked out. The “discharge instructions” from my massage therapist: sleep on your back for at least a week. My husband is an avid spooner. I’ve wavered in my tolerance of spooning. I love the idea of it.  But, my shoulders are already jacked from carrying around large boobs for 25+ years combine that with the hunched nature of spoon sleep is just plain wretched for my shoulders. After that week of prescribed back sleep, I saw a difference in my shoulders. It became my rule for all times. My husband and I now sleep lying flat on our back, holding hands like otters. Maybe our toes touch too. You can wretch at the cuteness of that visual. Go ahead. 

It’s definitely saying “did we donate to NPR this year?” 

It must have been when I started carrying around a spare water with me. Not just the water I’m currently consuming (that was a sign I was in my 30s) but I now bring a spare. I am planning ahead to achieve my 64oz a day. 

It also could have been when I decided that I only buy good toilet paper. Once you go to good toilet paper, there really is no going back. 

Maybe it was when I finally succumbed to all the social pressure and wear the damn suncream on my face every day. (Yes we say sun cream now, thank you peppa pig) Where as I used to succumb to pressure to stay for one more drink, these days skin care pressure has more pull over me. A light weight tinted suncream you say? 

It was definitely when I achieved the distinction of showing off pimples and wrinkles at the same time. Pimples of youth, wrinkles of age. A foot in each realm, truly. “I lived life but not enough to outgrow my hormonal breakouts!”

It also could have been when I realized a sedentary life is not going to serve me as I age. Even a little activity every day makes all the difference in the world. To combat a sedentary life, yoga and outdoor walking are my jams. 

Day by day, year by year, middle aged approached. I was letting her in and didn’t even know it. By embracing the small stuff, I’ve learned to embrace the big things. The big thing I’m embracing right now, is this birthday coming up in 14 days. Bring it on 40. I welcome you and all you have to offer. 

This is 40 for me: pimples, wrinkles, cute wide shoes, fanny packs, minivan, suncream, comfy mattress, yoga, coconut milk lattes, 10:30 bedtime, hats, lower back awareness, concerns for regularity, dry cleaning price comparisons, 64oz a day, chairs, creams, hobbies, books, podcasts, clean lines, minimalist design, sunrises, alone time, solo travel, ease, fabric content concerns, a slight heel for all day, bikinis, home chef novice, 2 minutes of brushing, naps, and a 2 drink maximum and Quilted Northern Ecocomfort.

DOUBT GUM

“You worship at the altar of doubt.”

This quote is from a podcast I adore, My Favorite Murder; it was said by a therapist to Georgia, a host of MFM. This quote stuck with me because it rings true for me. I worship at the altar of  doubt; self doubt most specifically. If I worship at the altar of doubt, I am wearing my negativity as clothing to this ritualistic worship. And I’ve ridden my horse, Pessimism into this party. 

Well to be fair, and I like to be fair (libra), I used to have a horse named Pessimism and a wardrobe of negativity. For starters, I had not grown up with shiny happy people, if you will. I continued to surround myself with negative ions for year because that is what I knew. I took value as being a “liked entity” from people who didn’t like much. If you had a chip on your shoulder and worked 3 dead end jobs, but you thought I was cool, I was worthy. I had won over a tough crowd! 

I had started to drain the swamp of negativity and pessimism in my brain many years ago, when I became a mom. My heart grew 17 times that day and I had no more room for anything less than unconditional love. I was done assuming the worst of people. I am over thinking “oh just you wait....”. I’m exhausted from thinking “that’s dumb”, because I don’t value something. I no longer wanted to be a person who said or thought “see, you shouldn’t have even tried to ride that bike” when I saw someone fall. I wanted to be the person who cheers you on and says “baby, I’ll steady the bike, while you dust off the dirt and get back on”. When you find yourself responsible for the well being of an actual other human, priorities emerge real fucking fast. Joie and Contentment have taken over where negativity and pessimism once held the post.

Motherhood easily chauffeured joie and contentment into life; but the season of active motherhood is too fraught with unknown and sleep deprivation to usher in confidence and ability. I found my joie but I held onto that doubt. This self doubt is like gum I picked up from a hot parking lot and I can’t get it off. I tried wiping it in the grass with deep intentional calf movements. Back and forth, back and forth, briskly. Look under shoe, curse. Repeat. I moved on in my arsenal of gum removal, I got a stick to work it out; but I can’t seem to get it all. I know it’s there when I see that clump of dead grass sticking out to the side of my shoe. Damn it. It’s turning black and becoming part of the shoe. Do I continue to scrape at the black gum on the bottom of my shoe? Or do I buy some new shoes?

My instincts have never led me astray, but my doubt has. When I trust my gut, follow my instincts, or listen to my heart (all the euphemisms for not doubting oneself), I find myself where I’m supposed to be. On the contrary, when I make accommodations, let doubt rule the road and second guess myself, I slalom around the road not knowing which direction I’m headed. 

This is what I need to do: I need to worship at the altar of my abilities. I have plenty of work in my life’s portfolio to look at and remind myself of my capabilities. Here goes......I’ve made big moves. I’ve birthed many humans. I’m part of a team that has created multiple businesses. I’ve quit smoking. I graduated college. I achieved weight loss. I can create healthy habits. I show up. I’ve survived renovations while living IN the home. I started this Lajoie project. I keep showing up to yoga classes. I have been married for 13 years. I drink the 68oz of water a day. 

I will not compare my life’s portfolio to yours. And you will not to mine. I will fully embrace my gut. I will not second guess my instincts. I will embrace the vibrant life I have lived and continue to let THAT guide me; not the pithy little nag that creeps into my thoughts and says, “are you surrrrrreeee?” Yes, I’m damn sure. I will now worship at the altar of my abilities, dressed in a cloak of Joie, riding my horse named Contentment. This is how I will get that gum off my shoe. Or hell, I’ll ride Contentment to town and buy some new shoes. 

finding the chicken nuggets

I don’t know the corners of the roads. I don’t know the pace of the exits. I don’t know where the chicken nuggets are at the grocery store. I haven’t a clue what the hours are at the yoga studio. I am scanning the FM radio aimlessly. I can’t slalom our house in the dark, avoiding trip hazards and door jams. I don’t have a babysitter. I’m not sure of the pick up routine at school. We have no friends, yet. I didn’t recognize the roads home after time away. I have to recall what driving in a city feels like. (I’ve been honked at twice, so far.) I have to find a dry cleaner. I have to find a dentist. I have to find doctors. I’m not sure when the mail comes. There’s so much unknown. 

Moving is located in the top 10 life stressors; in the company of divorce, loss of job, and death. I am trying to remember this when I feel this pressurized anxiety in my heart and my head when the feelings of “unknown” start to overwhelm me. I know that having to use the map app to drive is temporary. Someday I’ll know the roads. I accept success when I can find something without the map guidance. (I just found the library, unguided!) We will find our friends. We will know our teachers soon. I will rock the school drop off. Until then, things feel disjointed. There’s so much learning to do, it’s exhausting my brain. I feel like I’m doing the Achey Breakey line dance with 2 left feet. 

We moved from a very small town, population 1,800, to a city with a population of 100,000. I am learning to account for travel time. I’m getting used to not being the lone shopper at the grocery store. (I have learned to not make it a habit to go to HEB on Sunday afternoons.) I’m adjusting to not knowing everyone in the restaurant. I’m enjoying having options. I’m continuing to wave while driving around my neighborhood, (I doubt that will stop.) It’s new to take a highway everyday. Hell, it’s new to have stop lights in our life. 

Our house feels more like home. The clear totes and boxes have slowly disappeared. Our furniture and belongings inside our new home don’t look out of place anymore. The view out the windows is starting to become familiar. The shock of actually loading the U-haul and leaving has worn off. The dust is settling. We’re between the old and the new, between there and here. Somewhere between past and future, in a exciting and anxious present. 

Everything is focused on finding our new normal. We’re focused on touring new schools and setting up utilities. Someday we will be settled, but today ain’t that day. I think, I *should* be writing about something bigger, something more universally known. (Hello, doubt, my old friend) But, this space my life is occupying right now, is eclipsing most other thoughts. I have reminded myself that every time I think “this won’t resonate”, it does. So, my rumination (and future post) about how I used to drink to cope, which feels more important to write about, can wait. I’m stuck in this vortex of moving and remembering to give myself grace while we build the foundations of our life. It’s a season, just walk through it. Ask for directions. Ask for help. I found the chicken nuggets during my next trip to HEB. They were hiding from me in their own entire freezer section by the fresh chicken, not the freezer aisles. I counted 6 doors of frozen chicken nugget options. Now, where are the French Fries? 

batting 1,000

My mother used to rail on friends and family with her enlightened idea that “dads don’t babysit”. This was in 1989, I would consider her ahead of her time. She was denied a tubal ligation at the age of 24. The doctor told her she would have to “wait until she was 30 because she *might* want to have more kids”. The doctor TOLD my mom what her plan was for her life. She had already had 2 daughters. My sister, Jennie, when she was 19. Followed up by the biggest pain in the ass of her life, the unmedicated breech birth of me, at the age of 22. I was raised by a strong female lead. 

I was born for this task. I was built to be a mom to 4 daughters. It’s in my marrow. I am exactly the woman to handle this job of raising strong, independent, thoughtful, kind, brave, courageous, sometimes introverted and introspective young women filled with joie. My husband will teach them how to weld and I’ll teach them how to own their lives wholeheartedly. They will teach me how to practice grace and remember my joie. My sister has 4 daughters too. Chew on that for a minute. My parents had 2 daughters. They now have 8 granddaughters. We a TRIBE. 

I too, used to believe this bullshit about having girls.That girls were not something you want to be responsible for raising. I used to say reductive things like “ooh look they’re trying fo a boy”, when I saw a family of 3+ girls. Then a funny thing happened, I had these 4 daughters. In fact, y’all I KNEW I would have a girl tribe. I had a premonition. I didn’t find out the sex of my first child in an ultrasound. The day she was born, I was holding Charlotte in my lap and I looked up slowly at my husband and said “we’re going to have a bunch of girls”. That was 11 years ago, we now have 4 daughters. As I type, they are 11, 8, 7, & 5. 

For the last 2 days, I have been at a conference for women to step wholly into their lives and be who they were meant to be. There were 7,000 women in attendance. I’ve never seen such a sight as 7,000 women in a conference center. It was other worldly. Several times (how many is several anyway? More than a few? Okay, so maybe a few is the right term). A few times during this conference and several times, no, many many times in the last 5 years after I reveal that I have 4 daughters, I get served the “ooooo, I’m sorry for you” face accompanied with the same words. “Oh bless your heart” (that actually doesn’t mean bless you for anything, btw, for those not living in the south). Or “gonna try for a boy?” Or “oh no! Does you husband have a shotgun?” 

Y’all I just can’t with this bullshit anymore. I was at a women’s conference and during meal times when I was conference speed dating, aka, waiting in lines, I would get this reductive reaction of “going to try for a boy?” and it blew my mind. If not there in that space, then where will I get a “HELL YES” when I say I have 4 daughters? 

No. We are not trying for a boy. We were NEVER trying for a boy! Boys are not the goal in life and familyhood. Do you think my daughters are place holders for something? Or they were misfires till we lucked out and got a boy? Are you saying my squad ain’t for shit till they have a male teammate? No, my husband ain’t “lonely”. And no, my husband doesn’t have a shotgun, thank you very much.

We both feel honored to have 4 daughters. My husband gets teared up when he hears women singing for women, like TayTay, or Katy Perry, or Megan Trainor. You ain’t seen a father’s love till you seen a grown man choke down the words “you just gotta ignite and let it shine” to his girls.  I’ve seen it. It’s magical. 

Here’s where we go from here, it’s two fold: 1) We give teenage girls grace. We stop judging their entire lives by the brief period of puberty. Because everyone who “feels sorry” for me for having daughters references puberty. Everyone wants cute little girls in tutus but as soon as she hits her flow, we’re shunning her off to the corner and calling her “impossible”. Puberty is a fleeting time in life yet, we project onto these sweet young ladies that they are monsters that we don’t want in our lives. They’re bodies and emotions are betraying them. Everything is in upheaval. Then as a double whammy, when everything is changing, we mock their clothes. We mock their music. We tease incessantly. We roll our collective eyes back at them. 

Can we show teenage girls some grace? Can we help usher them through this period (pun intended)? Everything they’ve known is being thrown into a blender to be chopped up. They will emerge somewhere around 18 years old as a glorious strawberry smoothie; but there are some blender years. 

Yes, I have not had a teenager, yet. And before you dismiss me as not being experienced with this, let me remind you, I was a teenager. I remember being dismissed by the world. I was incessantly teased by my clothing choices. I will call on this experience to get me through having a teenager, by knowing I was one too. I’ve also now been a girl for about 40 years; I can practice empathy for my daughters. I will model for them how to lead a team of women. 

2) When I say, “yes I have children. 4 in fact. All girls. Yes, 4 daughters”. The callback will be “HELL YES”. No more mentioning boys, m’kay? No more horrified faces. Hell yes, to the mom who has 2 daughters. Hell yes, to the mom who has 3 daughters. HELL FUCKING YES, to the mom who has 5 daughters. 

We can do better for young women and girls. Follow me, I’ll lead the way. 

never & always

Two extremes: Never and Always. One full of abundance, Always. The other, Never, full of abscence. I would love to argue the semantics of these words all day. But, rather, I propose you banish them from your lexicon.  

Never and always are forms of perfectionism. They allow no room for growth and change. They are rigid and limiting. Never leaves no air for growth; spiritual, educational or emotional. Always leaves no room for doubt. Never and always are static. The world is not static. Perfection is unattainable. To quote Brené Brown, “perfectionism is a self destructive and addictive belief system that fuels this primary thought: if I look perfect, and do everything perfect, I can avoid or minimize the painful feelings of shame, judgement, and blame.”

The more you adhere to the Nevers and Always, I swear by law of attraction, those are the things that will haunt you the most. Then, you will eat your words. Eating your own words is a carb loaded meal of pasta, wine, and bread.  A meal you have to lie flat on your back and unbutton your pants after. I ate many meals of my words before I finally accepted something around year 5 of motherhood: the only constant is change. 

If you’ve raised a baby up, you know as soon as you get your new routine down to a science, that baby will change it up! From 2 naps a day for months, that baby will now absolutely refuse that morning nap. Your first 2 kids always ate anything you fed them; now this 3rd kid exists solely on hot dogs and grapes. Every time you get your footing as a mom, that rug gets pulled a little more to the left or right. You will learn to dance or you will learn to fall; most likely a combinaton of both. 

The more I’ve learned to accept change into my life, the happier and more fulfilled it has become. The less and less I use words (and the corresponding thoughts) of never and always, the brighter life gets. Self growth requires a flexible mindset. Embrace flexibility and.... Never say never. And always skip always. 

it’s always for me

I’ve never been a woman who spent a lot of time on her physical appearance. I wear makeup irregularly. I didn’t have dresses in my wardrobe until I was in my mid 20s. I didn’t own a pair of heels till I was 22. The first time I waxed my eyebrows, it was an awakening. I’m in awe of women with blown out hair and full make up at the 9am continental breakfast. I’m not standing in judgment about it. Nope. In awe. I’m the one with wet hair. I’ve rarely had the patience to blow out this thick head of hair. 

I am lucky enough to exist in many dimensions. I can wear Willie braids. I can wear dresses. I will wear jeans. I love heels. I will wear sneakers. I rarely ever wear socks though. I am always wearing a bra, you can count on that. I love to wear hats. I’m trying to wear less tee shirts. My work (either bleach or food) dictates my wardrobe often. The last few years I’ve been baking. Much to my dismay, sneakers / flats have been necessary. I also have 4 children, we can call that an “active lifestyle”. No office job here! So, when I DO put in the effort to look more “put together”, I realize it can be noticeable. 

I recently walked up to a restaurant, arm in arm with my husband to our date. We ran into our friend. He asked me “what’s that on your lips?” I was wearing lipstick. I had executed a full date night outfit. This person is used to seeing me on working Mondays. I had an unkind reply that I executed as a joke. His razzing of me, hit my humiliation bone. I realize I’m in control of my humiliation points. I could have taken it a different way. Or he could have said it differently. He’s not the only one that I’ve encountered this with. I’m going to share a “trade secret”. 

Fellas, I’m not doing this for you, for comments, or for an event that day. When I put together a more polished me, I feel better. That’s the secret! Women know this. I’m trying to execute a basic level of “fake it till you make it”. I’m trying to rock my way into the day. When you ask me “what are you so dressed up FOR today?”, assuming I have jury duty or an interview. Are you trying to harsh my high? It’s not FOR anything or anybody but myself. I realize I created this problem for myself, for not being consistent in my appearance. I will go get a latte after yoga. I will also, stop for a coffee on my way to a date night. But, I’m going to spread some good words here.....

This is always for me. It’s not for an event. It’s not for you. It’s not for my husband. It’s not for your comments, negative or positive. It’s not for your judgment. It’s for the spring in my step. Every damn person feels like they’re John Travolta strutting their Saturday Night Fever when they’re feeling on point. I’m trying to strut, don’t scratch the damn record: “What are you dressed up for?” 

Don’t be “that guy”. Be the person who pays a sincere compliment. I adore sincere compliments! Really! Who doesn’t? No backhanded bullshit compliments. Instead, tell me to “party on Wayne” and high five me; I’ll tell you to “party on Garth” and my heart with explode. You will have given a compliment and played a round of movie quotes. Win win. 

being (un)seen

My therapist said to me “what are you not seeing about yourself? Usually when someone is working so hard seeing others, they are not seeing something about themselves.” Fuck. That’s a huge handful of dry roasted chick peas to swallow. I see myself, and I love what I see! What was she talking about….

So, I can say now what I think was going on; I had been running around for years making sure everyone else was heard, seen, and appreciated. I’m the one organizing the meal delivery when a family is bringing home a baby. I’m the one making a birthday cake for the UPS guy. (hi! He might read this. Y’all are social media friends with your UPS guy, right?) I’m leaving the encouraging notecards anonymously (well, not anymore I guess) for other women to find on their windshields at the grocery store. I’m the friend who will reliably show up to “ladies night”. I’m showing up for the weekend away. I’m showing up for you. But not for me. But, I’m hoping you’ll show up for me.

Do you know what I was trying to do? I was trying to be seen, by seeing others. I was running all around looking at everyone, hoping against hope, that someone would see me back. But that approach is like a one way mirror. I’m looking in at you, from the cop side of the mirror, but you can’t see me. I needed to approach life like a regular ass mirror. A mirror I look into and see myself.

That 38 year old me, someone stop her, and her appreciation cards, until she can feel capable of giving herself the damn appreciation cards. Also, someone tell her to stop making herself small. “We couldn’t be where we are without all his hard work!” Do you know how many times I’ve said that to people about my husband? Yes, He does work hard. More than you know. More than I know. But you know what else, so do I. Where he is focusing on renovating the house, I’m just raising the children.

Speaking of him, I had to demand to be seen from my husband as part of this. He could see me. He would see me every time I wore a skirt. Every time I showed cleavage, I was seen but it was not a 360 degree view of me. Did he know the dreams I had? Did he see the burden I was carrying around for a couple years? Nope. He didn’t see me wholly because I didn’t let him. He was in his boat, sailing along on my port side, not knowing my starboard was taking on water. I let the expectations of “you can do it all!” set the course. That course is headed to martyr iceberg.

But when my therapist asked what I wasn’t seeing about myself. It all shifted. Within days, I emailed her for extra sessions. For a while, the weight was heavier than ever on me. It was as if I had been transporting the weight around in a rolling suitcases with me, but temporarily, I’d be carrying it around in my arms. I’d have to feel the weight of this issue. I’d have to sit with it, before I could finally put it down on the floor. I had to be seen. All of me. The pain I had too. That was integral.

The process of “being seen” was a combination of childhood reflection and trauma processing. It’s something I will continue to work on. There are times when I don’t honestly know what I need or want. That’s frightening to me. I can’t show anyone who I am until I knew her. She was fucking lost in a sea of expectations and assumptions. She didn’t know how to recognize her heart and its contents. The biggest thing I do now is trust my instincts. I have good ones. I silenced them for years. No more “I knew better”. I’m shifting to “I know better”.

My husband turned 40 this year. I had 1 idea for his birthday present, photos. The photos I had thought to take for years with my trusted friend, who is a photographer. We took the photos. They are brilliant photos. I plan to put them up in our new house. It was not intentional but this was the final act of being seen. My new therapist pointed this full circle act of being seen to me, when I told her about the photos. I sobbed heavy into my hands. I had made this poetic moment of baring myself, in a photo, as finally being seen.

It’s different now. I can feel it. The interactions of this Lajoie Society are not me looking for you to see me. I am seeing me. I got this figured out now. I’m here now to engage; without the little girl saying “look at me”. Now when I say, I see you. I don’t mean, do you see me.

resiliency

“I’m not married to anything but you”, Daniel said to me as we we’re driving away from the city we were considering moving to. I had asked him, do we stay because we’ve said we would? No. The answer would be no. We are allowed to grow and change. We are allowed to change course. We are allowed to dream. And now, we are going to achieve. But first, we have to leave. We have to leave our home and our community.

I’m currently surrounded my 6 boxes in my bedroom. There’s a multitude of boxes packed in my house, sitting in the place where they were packed from. I never thought we could move just because the physical act of moving 6 people seemed so daunting. This house is the longest I’ve ever lived somewhere since I left my childhood home. We’ve lived here 9 years. I was pregnant with our 2nd baby when we moved here. This is the only home my children have known. We have poured our hearts into this home. We slowly renovated it over many years. This house is now, what we saw it could be, when we bought it.

I’ve brought 3 of my babies home from the hospital to this house. We have a growth chart on a door frame, that we can not remove. (Don’t get me started on that) This is the only home they’ve known. We’ve had countless birthday parties here. We’ve had rocking kids New Year’s Eve parties here. My in laws have spent days, and weeks, helping us make this home what we dreamed. My kids have learned to use stairs in this house. Most of my kids learned to swim in a backyard pool we used to have. (Some friends too!)

We’ve grown into this house. When we first moved in as a family of 3, we walked through empty rooms, knowing that the house would be filled with the family we dreamed about. We now have that family and we are taking them from the safety of the home and the only community they’ve ever known. This decision was not made lightly. I’m writing about it because it weighs heavy on my heart. I can see the anxiety in some of my children’s faces when we talk about moving. I hold space for their anxiety. It’s an anxious time. I don’t want to mitigate their fears. I have them too.

My children have all been in Montessori classrooms. They have teachers for 3 years. I’m taking them from teachers they’ve known for enormous amounts of time of their child lives. I’m taking them from the friends they have known since birth. As a mother, this is counterintuitive. I’m currently adding fear and anxiety to their lives. I’m hoping to teach them that these fears of the unknown are temporary,

A fear of change. A fear of the unknown. A fear of stress. Scared of new, comfortable in the familiar. These are only temporary things. The unknown becomes known. Change becomes the new normal. Stress fades. When I thought about what skills I wanted to show my children, resiliency came out ahead of fear. I’m hoping to show them that fear and anxiety exist in the world, but, you can overcome these. You can thrive in change. We can make new ventures and adventures with joie; and hold sadness for our old routines and home. I want to show them that unexpected things can and will happen when you try something new and get out of your comfort zone. I want to show them what their parents are capable of. I want them to know that we had goals and dreams to accomplish. I want to show them, not tell them.

Residency is something I’ve learned and am still learning. It was not taught to me. I’ve learned it by doing and living and accomplishing. The more you try, the more your fail AND the more you succeed. We’re going to stretch ourselves and we will spring back into shape.

Resilient

adjective

1. (of a person or animal) able to withstand or recover quickly from difficult conditions

2. (of a substance or object) able to recoil or spring back into shape after bending, stretching, or being compressed

Resiliency

noun

1. the capacity to recover quickly from difficulties; toughness

2. the ability of a substance or object to spring back into shape; elasticity.

our home for 9 years

Ladybird got me into therapy. Yes, the movie.

The first time I wanted to go to therapy, I was a teenager. A friend of mine was seeing someone, she has no idea that I was envious of her luck. At the age of 15, I would have EATEN up the undivided & interested attention a therapist could have provided me. I was lost. It seemed Ike I had my shit together. I did not. That was my coping mechanism. It looked like I was so responsible and capable. I was; but I had no one and the loneliness was palpable. I was “boot strapping” at the age of 16.

The first time I went to therapy, was 2006. I had just suffered my second miscarriage. I had ZERO coping skills. This was fine to muddle through the early 20s years of life but when big things like marriage and babies and loss came into my life, a lack of coping skills translated into, a severe inability to cope. I somehow found my way to a therapist who specialized in reproductive trauma. I was about 5 or 6 appointments in when I had to stop seeing her. My husband had lost his job. We would end up moving out of Austin.

For years, I LONGED for the benefits of therapy. I knew the work could help me. I knew I needed coping skills. But this fucked up thing happens, and I doubt I’m the only one, I thought I wasn’t fucked up enough for therapy. I have 2 parents. They had jobs. I went to college. I was pretty successful as a small business owner. I had 4 kids now. I have a car that isn’t a piece of shit. I was fine. Life was happening. It would be fine. Lots of moms want to pull their hair out when they are a “stay at home”. I was enjoying my new yoga habit. I wasn’t drinking much at all anymore. I was fine. Sure. Fine.

The second time I started therapy was February of 2018, after I finally got over my imposter syndrome with therapy. I went to see “Ladybird” at my local town theater. This movie stabbed me in my heart. I could see myself in the main character. When I was a late teenager, I would be listening to Ani Difranco at my barista job, identical to the main character. I cried for over an hour after the movie ended. During this same period of time, I had been diving into some really great podcasts, the hosts of many of my favorite podcasts all talk openly about their mental health work. They all highly recommend seeing a therapist. But Ladybird, the movie. That was it y’all. That was my moment that pushed me to email the therapist in town. I finally had the moment that I admitted I didn’t have it all figured out. I didn’t have it all together.

There was no level of “fucked up”, like a height requirement at an amusement park, to get into therapy. You just have to want it. You have to want to do better, know better, feel better, speak better, communicate better, and understand better. Well, you have to be able to afford it too. There were many years that we COULD NOT have afforded therapy. I don’t even know how to talk about the time and money commitments needed for “self care”. Bookmarking that….

This latest therapist would end up leaving her practice, 6 months after I started with her. During the last month, I crammed in sessions. I had finally gotten to my core content and wanted to cover as much material as I could. I then took some months off. Financially and emotionally, I needed a break. I kept my commitment to dive back in. After 3 months off, I did the hard work and found someone else to see. It’s not easy where I live. I have to drive 25 miles to get to therapy now. I had to do the work to find someone to fit into my schedule, that’t not a guarantee in our remote area either.

I will share my thoughts on messaging, online, new format therapy.: I tried it for a month. It didn’t work for me. The last thing I need is someone else to text. I need appointments. I need to get out of my house. I need to be seen. Truly, SEEN in person. I have issues of ‘being seen’, That will be a great topic someday, being seen! Online therapy may be a great tool for you. I see the benefit. After I work through all this hardcore stuff, online therapy might be a great place for maintaining the work I’ve done.

If you’re having the same thoughts that I did, that you’re not worthy of therapy, go ahead and call bullshit on yourself. Imposter syndrome (Wikipedia) a psychological pattern in which an individual doubts his or her accomplishments and has a persistent internalized fear of being exposed as a "fraud". I was doubting my worthiness, not by positive accomplishments but by negative accomplishments. Classic minimizer mindset, by the way!

Your mental health should be as important as your physical health. I’m really tired of any stigma associated with therapy, or counseling. I believe the stigma is waning. We are undoubtedly entering into a new era of understanding our brains and how to make the best of our lives.

I was worthy. You are worthy too.

hold the croutons!

June 9th is an anniversary for me. 3 years ago I was diagnosed with celiac disease! I had an answer after months of distress. Not many people will identity with this story, as my last about miscarriages, but its a big part of my life so I’m going to share the story with y’all.

Celiac disease is a serious genetic autoimmune disease that damages the villi of the small intestine and interferes with absorption of nutrients from food. An estimated 1 in 133 Americans, or about 1% of the population, has celiac disease. It is estimated that 83% of Americans who have celiac disease are undiagnosed or misdiagnosed with other condition. I got these facts from beyond celiac.

October 2015, I suffered the worst stomach virus of my adult life. I had nursed my kid through it 2 nights prior. I then suffered from it. I threw up for hours. My husband came to check on me, in the spare bedroom, the next morning. I was a rag doll. I could barely sit up. I was so sick. I said “you HAVE to watch the baby today! I can’t!” I recovered after a couple puny days.

A couple weeks after this horrid stomach bug, gastrointestinal distress creeped into my life. Gastrointestinal distress is a nice way to say I had diarrhea. Diarrhea that would come and go. For 8 months. It took me a couple months to finally run into our hometown clinic and say “I get these bouts of diarrhea, help!” I got prescribed antibiotics. The diarrhea would stop. Rinse and repeat this process.

I was no longer in control of my body. I pooped my pants. It was a Tuesday morning. I had Pilates class later that day. Never trust of fart, especially when you’ve been in intermittent GI distress for months! Lesson learned. I texted my friend taking the Pilates class too, “hey, I can’t make it today. I’ve pooped my pants, best to stay home.” I recall one night when my husband was trying to tell me a story of his day, I jumped up from the couch and bolted for the toilet no less than 3 times. It was rocket force diarrhea too. (I told you, there’s no TMI here) I learned there’s normal shitty (pun intended) diarrhea and then there’s a higher level of excretion speed and force, that I had not experienced previously. Having undiagnosed Celiac disease was next level diarrhea. Truly explosive, if you will.

In April of 2016, we had a long distance to travel (by car) for a funeral. It was a diarrhea week for me. I ran to the clinic, got some more antibiotics to get me through this trip. Also that month, I went to El Paso for the night with a friend. She and I had a lovely tapas dinner. By the end of the meal, while waiting for the Uber to pick us up, I was dying on a bench. I was so bloated. I was in such pain. I just felt awful. Truly awful. The pain subsided by the time we got to the hotel, I succumbed to our plans for 1 more drink. After that one more drink, all I could do was crawl into bed. My small intestine felt like it was in my throat. Being vertical was the only thing that helped. I slept for a few hours. I then woke up and SPRINTED to the bathroom. I was now vomiting. I spent the rest of the night in that bathroom. It was a lovely chic downtown hotel, I had destroyed that bathroom that night. I spent the rest of the morning, gathering myself to ride home the 3 hours.

I said to my husband, this is not okay. There’s something wrong with me. Seriously. I don’t throw up. I hate hate hate throwing up. He had seen me zen master myself through 4 pregnancies, trying NOT to barf. He knew the lengths I would go, to avoid an up chuck.

I went back into the clinic. I was assigned to the other doctor at the clinic. This doctor had a med student working with him that summer. (Yes, the med student was hunky,) There were going to be fresh eyes on “my case”. They did a little history with me and figured out that I had been in Mexico in October of 2015. My husband and I had been there for our 10 year anniversary. The hunky med student and I decided we should do a test for a parasite. I had to get them a sample. A poop sample. Oh, also, I had known this hunky med student since he was in high school, when we moved to this small town. I hadn’t seen him in years, since he left for college. “You’ve grown up; now hunky and in med school. I have 4 kids and the trots. Great catching up with ya!” <—— not a real quote. I desperately would have preferred to talk to either of middle aged doctors at the clinic about “my sample”.

Back to the saga. I got the clinic a sample. It would take 5 days to get results. It was Memorial Day weekend. They wanted me to take the treatment for a parasite during that time. Might as well treat me like I had it. If we waited for the results, I would have delayed treatment for another week. So I started the treatment, and they sent off my sample.

During this wait time, my sister texted our family. She had celiac disease! Her story was different than mine. She survived thyroid cancer when she was 23. She has yearly screenings to check all sorts of levels. During her annual check in, they noticed her iron level was reallllllly low. They sent her to a specialist to investigate further. During her intake with the specialist, she mentioned that she (we) have a cousin who is celiac. They made sure to test her for that. She had been given the results the day I was finishing my parasite treatment. I went to my parasite follow up the next day and said “I don’t have a parasite, I know what this is!” The hunky med student had the results that I was not carrying around a parasite. He had worked out a couple ideas to test for but when I walked in with my sister’s news, we focused on one thing. He drew my blood. A few more days of waiting.

I knew what was coming. I had googled. All my symptoms had lined up. I was genetically linked! I did what anyone waiting on news that will forever change their diet, I binged on the thing I wouldn’t be able to have. I ate as much gluten as I could handle those few days waiting (which wasn’t much, since I felt so horrid. I drank my last beer though.

A positive result for the Tissue Transglutaminase IgA antibody testing for celiac disease is over a 4. I had aced this test! I registered >100! I was greater than 100! A resounding yes! Off the charts! The only prescription for celiac disease is a gluten free diet. My new world order began that day. Do you know how prevalent wheat is in our American diet? Its everywhere. Going out to eat is a minefield. I know the risks but I can’t eat at home the rest of my life.

People with celiac disease have to follow a strict gluten free diet. We don’t eat French fries cooked in the same oil as the chicken nuggets. It’s that intense y’all. I get sores in my mouth when I eat something that has been cross contaminated. We may seem like pains in the asses but understand that this is not a diet for us, its an autoimmune disease. When a celiac has gluten in their system, their small intestine doesn’t function correctly. Our body attacks itself! That’s what an autoimmune disorder is, your body waging war on itself.

I’m not sure how long my small intestine was in a state of dysfunction. I was 17 when I first tried to give blood and I was denied for being anemic. These last 3 years of my life, could be the first real intestinal function I’ve had in decades? It’s possible my “normal” for so long was dysfunction but I just didn’t know it. I believe that when I got sick in October of 2015, my celiac kicked in full blast. My digestive tract got so demolished during that sickness, I was never able to get back from that.

I was back to health after a mere weeks of a gluten free diet. The bouts of diarrhea disappeared immediately. My general puniness disappeared after a matter of weeks. I feel lucky that Celiac is so manageable. There’s no meds to take! There can be a long period of suffering till you figure out what’s going on, but after that, it’s easy to manage. My new world order of shopping, cooking, and eating gluten free is a achievable and I know it could be worse.

After my sister and I were diagnosed the same week, serendipitously, we insisted our mother get tested. The cousin who is also celiac, is on my mother’s side. My mother tested positive as well. My sister tested her children, one of her twins tested positive for it. Not surprising to us that this child tested positive. This niece had been hospitalized previously when she was so weak from a stomach bug. She was also very small. She was in less than the 10th percentile. Since her diagnosis, she has rocketed UP her charts!

I am completely adjusted to my new gluten free world. The hardest times are traveling. Finding a full meal that is GF, can be daunting. I eat a lot of salads without croutons. I love salad but when I can find a full hot meal that’s GF, I do a happy dance. I satiate cravings by making things GF. Sometimes it works. Sometimes they’re total fails. Gluten free pretzels are better than regular. My gluten free salted chocolate chip cookie is incredible, you’d never know it was GF. Our family gatherings have become a tiny GF conferences! My sister, mother, and myself, we make treats, share recipes and new products we’ve found. Our mantras are: Carry snacks! Pass the tamari! And hold the croutons!

I will wear white

You will be tired. You will give your all to your children. You will do it all. You will smile. You will be grateful for this time. You will be tired (yes, I said that already). You will fail. You will succeed. You will be messy. You will have none of it. You will cancel plans. You will embrace chicken nuggets. But, apparently, you will not wear white.

She said, “Damn, you’re wearing a white shirt? You have four kids. You’re brave for wearing a white shirt. I could never and I only have 2 kids”. I had been aware that my white shirt could be construed as an act of defiance, it was true, I do have 4 kids. I didn’t realize it would become a mantra. I had only recently purchased white tops again. I had been believing all the malarkey moms get piled on top of them. I, too, had believed that moms couldn’t wear white.

My battle cry had been forged. I will wear white. I will no longer forget who I am. I will no longer sacrifice so much of myself. I will have a nice couch. I will teach my children that we are to keep this couch clean. I will set my expectations high for them and they will live up to it. The dogs are never allowed on the couch, to be clear. I will not listen to the kids’ movie on the car speakers, they can use the headphones.

I will start to remember who I am and I will wear white. I will take time to read books again. I will paint my walls white in my house. I will not worry about marker stains on my vintage dining table. I will wear heels. We CAN have nice things. I don’t have to believe all the tropes about motherhood and family life. I can make my life, and my outfits, reflect what I want. I will wear white.

we knew this was going to happen

I was 25. We had been dating 8 months. I was unfathomably unprepared to be pregnant. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to have children. I didn’t like them so much, I did like my niece, who was 4.. She was slowly changing my mind about kids. When my mother met Daniel, the previous Christmas holiday, I had hinted that maybe she would have more grandchildren someday. I was not prepared for that someday to arrive just mere months later.

I had stopped taking birth control the previous year, when I swore off dating in anticipation of a move to Los Angeles. I went out with Daniel, breaking my promise to myself to “not date”. Pretty quickly, I knew I would be staying in Austin to see where our relationship would go. I didn’t get back on birth control though. We were practicing safe sex. Until we didn’t. There were 2 times that I was vulnerable to get pregnant. I brought up the issue, “I should get back on birth control”. We agreed that would be the plan. It was too late. I was already pregnant. It would take me 2 more weeks to figure that out.

I went to Walgreens and bought a pregnancy test after work. I was shaking like a leaf. The cashier said “good luck”. I’m going to pause here….. why the discussion cashier? Every time I’ve bought a pregnancy test, there’s a discussion! I thought pregnancy tests would be like tampons, silent acknowledgment, but let’s not talk about it. I could barely wrap my head around buying the test. I was not prepared for the outcome of the test.

I went home and took the test. Pretty immediately the words “pregnant” appeared. Yes, I spent the money on the high dollar digital test, not those damn pink lines. “Do you see a line?” Fuck those line tests, certainty is needed in those moments. Now I was shaking like a tree, in a tornado. I had to tell Daniel. I didn’t know how to tell him. I put the test in my purse and drove to his house.

Daniel had 2 roommates at the time. (I lived in an apartment 5 miles away) He was cooking dinner when I arrived. When we had a moment to ourselves, he hugged me, as he could tell I was shaken. He inquired what was up with me. I couldn’t even get the words out. I started crying and he knew. He knew. He was happy for a second. I had not been happy for a second. He hugged me even harder, told me it was going to be okay. We sat through a dinner with his roommates, sharing our secret silently between us. We then proceeded to talk and talk for a while that night.

It was an uncertain time. This was not our plan. The timing was all wrong. He wanted these things with me, a family and children, but this was sooner than we anticipated. I wanted this too, to be clear. The moment he said “of course I want to marry you and have babies with you” while he tended to his backyard garden, could be considered the beginning of our engagement. I made lists. That’s what I do best. I had to organize my thoughts. It took a week for it to sink in, we were going to have a baby in November of 2005.

I am taking my time telling the story of my first pregnancy, to explain how mentally unprepared I was for this pregnancy. Because I was even more unprepared for what came next. Unprepared isn’t even the word, I was blindsided by what came next. We told everyone i was pregnant! Friends! Family! Etc etc. this was before social media, so there was no big FB announcement. Once the baby train left the station, we worked on logistics. I would move into his house, his roommates would be leaving. I had to find a doctor. Back up, I had to find health insurance. I had to quit one of my jobs, the night job was the obvious choice to quit. All this was in process. Life was changing and moving; I was sold on this new chapter!

About 5 weeks into this new chapter, Daniel was gone racing motorcycles for the weekend. I did not go, since I had to work. It was a Sunday. There was a pink streak when I wiped that day. I knew this wasn’t right. I googled it. Okay, it can happen. Pregnant women can bleed. Nothing to worry about. When Daniel got home that night, I did not mention it. It would be fine.

It was not fine. The next day, it turned to blood. I had to tell him. I told him. Through the help of the internet, we both agreed that I needed to see a doctor. I had not had one picked out yet, I was waiting for insurance to kick in. Daniel put me in contact with his stepsister who helped me figure this out. I called around to some gynecologist and one office could get me in that day. I went alone. I told him “its no big deal, it’ll be fine. You don’t need to miss work for this. (btw, he owned his own business) Ill let you know what happens.”

I was out of sorts. I didn’t even take off my underwear in the appointment room. The doctor came in, utterly annoyed that she had to leave again so that I could remove my undergarments. She huffed off, I swear she even rolled her eyes at me. Empathy or sympathy? Wasn’t even considered. A kind word? HA. No fucking way. A EXPLANATION of what was happening in the appointment? Dream on.

She came back in with a karaoke machine. There was a microphone! Well, this will be fun. What are we going to sing! Wait, WHERE IS SHE PUTTING THAT MICROPHONE! Wtf is this? What is she doing with THAT? “I’m going to do a transvaginal ultrasound to look for a heartbeat. We have to use the transvaginal one since you are not far along enough for the belly one. This wand like instrument will be inserted in your vagina. No need for alarm” <————— that sentence was not said.. That basic fucking explanation didn’t happen. I had had many gynecological appointments. They had all been routine, so I had never needed an ultrasound to look for any anomaly.

There was no heartbeat. What did that mean? There wasn’t even a baby. My body had fooled me. The test says pregnant but it was not viable. The technical term was “blighted ovum”, which I googled later. I was not given this information from the doctor. There was a empty black circle on the screen. The empty black circle should have had an alien looking creature forming by then. It was empty. I was dumbfounded. What was happening?

I was sent away with directions to take tylenol for pain, the miscarriage could happen “at any time”, and to call them to report back when it did happen. Let’s start with Tylenol directions first. My period cramps had blasted through Tylenol since I was 13. Second, when you say it could happen at any time, some context would be appropriate. Here’s a suggestion for what I could have been told: Wear a pad starting now because it will be a lot of blood.

Blindsided and stunned, I called Daniel to report what had happened. He met me back at his house within 30 minutes. We must have sat in disbelief and tears for the rest of the day. I honestly don’t remember. That’s the thing about trauma. There’s a black hole in my mind, where the memories of this time should be.

Later that week, I was at work. I worked at a retail shop on South Congress. It was Friday night. I was closing the shop that night. I’m not sure how many days it had been since I had the Dr appointment. As I sat on the stool, I felt something that made me run for the bathroom,. This was the beginning of the most horrific experience; at work, in a public space. It was a virtual faucet of blood. I can’t explain how frightening this was without prior knowledge. I needed to NOT be at work for this. I called my boss (and friend) and tearfully said I was miscarrying. He told me to close immediately and go home. I approached the customers in the store and told them I was having an emergency and had to close up. I somehow secured myself enough with a towel I had in my truck, to keep the blood from staining my the seat. I had a pantyliner with me, but we were at defcon 5 flow, a pantyliner would not hold the front lines to this. I called Daniel and told him what was happening. “Go get me the biggest diaper level pads you can find”. When I arrived home, I RAN to the bathroom, RAN. I then sat on that toilet for hours.

“Jessie I’m so sorry this is happening”, I will always remember Colby, he was Daniel’s friend and roommate and now my friend, giving me this massage from the other side of th bathroom door. He didn’t quite understand what was happening, but honestly, neither did I. I continued to bleed heavily and pass clots that night and into the next day. The physical passing of everything would over in a couple days. The pain was immense. Turns out, miscarriages are “little births”. That information would have been helpful before I endured it. Also, a real painkiller. Tylenol, pffffff. I didn’t have a headache, I was having a home birth. You do you, but I’m not interested in unmedicated home births.

I had only gotten used to the idea of having a baby. I couldn’t comprehend the new task at hand: not having this baby. I went back to the Doctor on Monday. They took my blood, my HcG levels were dropping. It was over. They would monitor my levels to make sure they hit 0. Thats the end of it. You are officially not pregnant when your hcG level registers 0. 0 means there are no “productions of conception” left in your body. The productions of conception might have been gone, but the products of life were still hanging around. I assume there was some sort of phone tree to reverse our baby announcement. It took a LOT more wrangling to get off the “your pregnancy check up” reminder list from my insurance. I had to go into the office and beg someone to change my status. “I am NOT pregnant anymore. I miscarried. I certinaly can not be the first woman to experience this. Please make the reminders stop”, I pleaded to the woman in her office. I think my husband packed up the few baby items we had acquired. That was it. We settled into a new normal. I finished my move into his house. It was he and I now in his house. Baby, you’d be joining us someday but not this year. Or the next.

We got married 6 months after my first miscarriage. We eloped in Vegas, just the 2 of us. We got married in our flip flops. We drank tall boys of Miller High Life on a bench as our reception. It was perfectly us. I had gotten on birth control after that first miscarriage. Almost a year after that first miscarriage, we were ready. I got off the birth control. We had 2 jobs. I was on health insurance properly. Things were more settled. We were more ready. Honestly, the switch in me had been flipped. I didn’t know how much I wanted to children, babies, and this family with Daniel; until it was gone. I was unabashedly ready to get back on that baby train. I got pregnant and was due in November 2006, almost a year to the day of the first pregnancy.

I found a new doctor. I made it to 9 weeks this time. During an ultrasound they couldn’t detect a heartbeat. We had seen a heartbeat the week before though! I THOUGHT IT WAS FINE. We had seen the heartbeat but there was “something else” she said. This something, a hematoma, would need to be watched. But, by week 9, we had a bigger hematoma and no heartbeat. It was over again. I thought it was going to be fine.

I can’t tell you the name of these doctors. I can’t tell you where their offices were. I don’t know what happened after this. I know Daniel was with me for these appointments. I know we made the decision for me to miscarry naturally, since I had done it before. I could do it again, with a prescription for proper pain meds. We left with those intentions. Days went by. Weeks went by. I kept working, I was saving some time off for when it actually started to miscarry. I was in a fucking DAZE. I was the saddest I had ever been. Day in and day out, I walked around waiting for my body to expel yet another unviable pregnancy. I was 26.

After 3 weeks, the doctor office brought me in. Yes, I walked around for 3 weeks waiting to miscarry to save $ on a procedure. Someone should have shook me and told me I didn’t have to do this. I didn’t’ have to be strong. The nurse practitioner took one look at me and said “you are having a D&C, tomorrow. You can not do this any longer”. She hugged me. She was the kindest person of this whole ordeal. She took all the pregnancy magazines out of the room and brought me something off pregnancy topic to read, while we waited the hour to see the doctor. The doctor was very busy and important. When I showed emotion during this appointment she said to me “we knew this was going to happen”. AYFKM. That was needlessly cold and dismissive of her. She said “you’re young and healthy, you can get pregnant again”. All true and somewhere in my heart and body I knew that to be true. BUT, don’t you DARE minimize my life, my emotions, and my experience. How about a “I’m sorry for your loss?”

I had a D&C the next day. I have no memories of the time we were at the hospital. I remember driving there. I remember driving home. I remember nothing in between. Trauma. I called my office when Daniel went into the pharmacy. I was still high on the drugs. I told the project manager I was done and everything went fine and that I was still high on drugs (facepalm). He was happy to hear from me but asked if I’d like to speak to Marie, she was the only other woman in the office and truly who I was calling to talk to. Lol. Again, it was over. The baby clothes were packed up again.

The second time eclipsed the first in devastation. Somehow through the fog of this time, I found a therapist who specialized in reproductive trauma. I would travel every Friday from South Austin (Buda basically) to Round Rock for therapy. Well, for a few months. My husband lost his job and we lost our insurance. I had to stop seeing the therapist. We then embarked on a move out of Austin. This new life shake up was a great way distract me from the feelings of total depression and abject failure I felt at the time.

Would I ever have a baby? How long would it take to get pregnant again? What if I lose another one? I had NO idea how hard this could be. I never really knew how much I wanted it, till it was gone. It took almost another year to become pregnant again. We were stressssssssed out. It’s no surprise it took a year. I was again due in November. 2005, 2006 & 2007, I had due dates in November each year.

We were now in Marfa TX. There was 1 doctor for 3 counties. 3 counties all individually the size of Rhode Island. He was busy that year. Really busy. My first appointment was at 8 weeks.. I was uncomfortable with a male OBGYN. I preferred women OBGYNs but I truly had no choice. He was it. He was the polar opposite of the doctors I had in Austin. He was slow. He was all bed side manner. The first appointment he got out his radio shack version of a heartbeat monitor. He couldn’t find the heartbeat. I was in full panic instantly. It was now 4:00pm. We couldn’t race to the closest hospital for an ultrasound. This rural doctor didn’t have an ultrasound machine in his office. So we had to wait. The next day the ultra sound tech found the heartbeat. It was all okay. Exhale. I am not a skinny girl. Those Radio Shack monitors can fail at finding a heartbeat at 8 weeks, even if the mom is on the skinny side. We had not told anyone that I was pregnant this time. We were waiting the 12 weeks to share our news this time. This baby was born November of 2007. She is now 11 years old. The oldest of our 4 daughters. To look at me now, you’d never believe there was a time I thought, will I ever have a baby?

I am writing this so that we can STOP this whole 12 weeks malarkey. Sing it from the mountains! Tell us all the minute you feel like sharing. We can all dig deep and learn how to support women through a miscarriage, instead of making her keep it secret till its “viable”. Why don’t we talk about our miscarriages, so women don’t feel so alone in their “failure”? I heard from SO many older women in my life who had a miscarriage, but only after I had one. I honestly, never thought I could have a miscarriage in my 20s. I thought it was an affliction for “older women”. We have got to do better for our sisters and ourselves. I needed support and love during this time. I needed to feel this loss. I didn’t need to be told ‘you can just try again!’ I needed to hold space for what was now gone before I could think about the next.

The first step has to be more honesty and transparency. We need to talk about this reality. Miscarriages occur in 10-25% of all pregnancies. That’s A HUGE STATISTIC. Yet unless you’re on a pregnancy forum, you probably won’t hear about it. Here’s my statistics: I have been pregnant 6 times. I have 4 daughters now. My miscarriages occurred in my 20s. My second daughter’s pregnancy was a threatened miscarriage, I bled a little but everything stabilized. I had a mild panic attack during that time.

Share your reproductive traumas. I’m here. I’m listening. I see you. I hear you. I’m ready to break down the secrecy and shame surrounding pregnancy loss. I encourage you to not wait 12 weeks to announce. I’ll NOT be having anymore babies or I’d practice what I’m preaching. I am here, on the other side, to be a patient listener and active supporter.

To the doctor that told me “we knew this was going to happen”, I hope she has worked on her bed side manner. No one deserves to be so dismissed, even if we knew it was going to happen.

goldfish crumbs

We were traveling to Massachusetts for my Memere’s (French grandma) funeral in 2009 when I experienced the best and the worst of motherhood (humanity) all in the same story. We had one child back then and she was 18 months old at the time. We had flown before with my daughter, this was not the first time, I was relatively prepared for the flight. Of note, the first time we flew as parents, we completely missed the flight by not allowing enough time in the morning to get from the airport hotel to the airport, a distance measured in FEET. Rookie travel mistake, check! This was our second flight, we were seasoned sophomore travel parents.

I probably had a little DVD player with us to keep her entertained. This was long before the glorious ipad came onto the scene. I’m sure I had an array of oddities in my purse to entertain our child. I also had snacks. Things were going along smoothly. Entertainment, snacks, and a child old enough to be able to relatively reason with.. Check, check, check. I think I even had time to read a magazine or book on this flight. It was not noteworthy, until the end.

As the flight was starting to descend to our destination, and everyone starts waking up from their flight induced comas; the fight attendants come around to pick up trash. This was a team of 3 flight attendants. Two younger (in their 30s-40s) and one older in her late 50s. Lets call her Barb for the purposes of this story. Barb was an unhappy person. Barb was the type of person who couldn’t just be unhappy, she had to spread it to others to make herself feel better, temporarily.

So Barb stops at our row, as we’re collecting our belongings and such. She postures up to our row and says “Well, isn’t this a mess. We are going to have to call ahead and make sure they have a vacuum ready. This is going to require extra clean up”. I haven’t even mentioned what she is talking about yet, because IT WAS A NON ISSUE. If I recall correctly, my kid had goldfish. Some had spilled out. I had picked most of it up. The dust from the bottom of the bag was on the ground. The end. Not a big deal in any way. Except for Barb’s way.

My face immediately went flush. I stammered and apologized and dove onto (well you know, squeezed myself between seats precariously) the ground to pick up goldfish dust off the airplane floor. My kid felt horrible too. We all sat in stunned disbelief of the judgment assault we had just endured. I felt like a horrible person.

I’m going to have to argue semantics for one minute here….. don’t they vacuum after every flight? I’ve seen a cleaning crew standing at the ready, when I’ve disembarked a plane. I would assume that vacuuming was standard practice. The existence of goldfish cracker dust should not be the trigger point for a vacuum. How about the 400+ shoes that have hit that floor?

So, either Barb was telling the truth, that vacuuming between flights is not standard (!!!!!!) or she was being really aggressive with a lie. For certain, she handed out shame and judgement like they were those little BS bags of pretzels.

We had a moment to gain some perspective and thought that Barb was out of line. My husband made it a point to stop by the other flight attendants on his way back from the restroom. He kindly let them know the crumb tyrant had said. These ladies, let’s call them Erica and Shannon. They brought the sun out. You’re going to like Erica and Shannon.

As I was getting up to exit my row with my eyes down and averted, still feeling shamed. I was handed a plastic bag with something in it and Erica told me “put this in your bag. We’re sorry”. When I got to baggage claim I had discovered they had wrapped a full size (not a tiny airplane sized) bottle of red wine up in plastic bags. It was a moment of solidarity that can still resonate with me today, 10 years later.

I don’t have covert bottles of wine to offer to all the mamas I see who I want to show my solidarity to. But, I do have my smile, I do have my words, I do have my secret “love bomb” cards that I leave for them, I do have the time to hold their baby when they eat, I can hold the door when they’re struggling with those damn strollers; I can and I do those things.

I owe those flight attendants Erica and Shannon (reminder, not their real names. I have no clue what they were) a big old “THANK YOU” for taking the turd and making into a flower! They changed that whole experience of shame, judgement, and self doubt into a bonding moment. They saw me. They acknowledged me. They lifted me up. To this day, I continue to do the same to others and sometimes to myself.

derp face no more

Y’all. I come from a long line of awkward smilers. I have attached photographic proof, you can not disagree, I have (had) an awkward smile and I got it honestly. Somewhere around 5 years ago I realized this. I pondered, why do I look like i’ve just been told we missed that exit there’s no bathroom for the next 300 miles? What the hell was going on? So much had to be accepted and reworked. I got to work.

I examined photos. I took a long hard look at myself. In photos. I looked at others in the photo. I come from a non-photogenic family (sorry y’all, its not our strong suit) but I married into an extremely photogenic family. Friends, also, have amazing smiles. I mean, major cheeky, perfect teeth, big ol happy faces. And then, me, derp face. This cropped photo ^^ of me contains no less than 10 other adults and more children with grandma approved smiles. But me. I look like I’m trying to make the best of a hostage situation. My husband has a gorgeous smile. Truly. Big and wide. He’s got amazing eyes too. I had to step up, to participate in a lifetime of photos next to him.

I got to work on the issue. During this process, I had to admit the problem as my first step. I told my bestie, “dude, I have the worst smile, wth is going on with me?” Like a true bestie, she agreed. She helped me overcome this issue. She offered me positive encouragement when I nailed it. I believe there was even some live in person smiling events. “Less cheek man” “open your eyes more” “wait, no, not that much”. I had to tell my in laws. I admited the problem and told them, I was working on it. I told my sweet family that I appreciated them loving me, even when I looked like a cartoon meerkat in photos. I told them I was working on it and I felt certain I could make them proud.

The second level of acceptance was this, I have a tiny mouth. One could describe it as a butthole mouth. Its just a descriptor, please laugh, it’s meant to be funny. Armed with this knowledge, I could really make some strides. It took me about 2 years to finally nail it. I worked with what I had and can now produce a lovely natural smile. I think of something that truly makes me happy. I have to work in these photo taking moments. I think of my orange VW bug. Or I think of the day that I met Justin Theroux. Then BOOM, it happens. I can produce a natural lovely grin.

This story is serving 2 purposes. First, to make y’all laugh. Second, its a silly example and I’ll have more bigger and brighter examples of this but, the path to self awareness is a productive one. I will even assert that my recent strides to a truer happiness are evident now in my smile.

self doubt

In my 6th grade year, my teacher was going around the room asking what everyone wanted to be when they grew up. You had to stand up and pronounce your life goals for all to hear (and judge!) at the ripe age of 12. I proudly stood and proclaimed that I wanted to be a “comedian”. She said to me “no, that’s not a real job., What do you REALLY want to be?” I blinked and my face flushed. I really did want to be a comedian. I said a “veterinarian” because about 75% of the girls in the class had said that. Now hear me, I am not an animal girl. Horses intimidate me. Neigh, they scare the shit out of me. We only had 2 pets, not consecutively in my childhood. In fact, by 6th grade, we had had 1 cat. Veterinarian material, I was not. But this story is not going to be about how I should become a comedian now! It’s never too late! No, this is a story about doubting yourself. A lesson that would take years to undo. I would start to unfold into a place of autonomy and my true self, only to curl back up again and stagnate. Unfold and curl back up.

I would spend the next 25 years in a power struggle with myself. Between this oddly capable and deathly lost life. I had so much potential and now way to tap into it productively. I started college at the age of 16, after a year & half of homeschooling myself and a year & half of traditional high school. I then went onto get my associate’s degree and bachelor’s degree. I have never used my college degree. I moved to Texas, only to get a job at the pizza place across the street from the Ad agency, that I was sure housed my dream job. I had 4 babies in 6.5 years, truly a feat of strength and perseverance. I should have taken great pride and strength from this time but, those years nearly broke me. Unfold and curl back up. Unfold and curl back up. Potential lost to self doubt.

Being lost does grant the opportunity to find new roads. That is what I did. I found my way but purely by happenstance and getting lost. Hard stop, I have to write what just happened. I saved this post as a draft and started a new one. I started to convince myself that this was an unworthy topic. Self doubt in action. That’s how it works for me! Fucking hell.

So here goes. NO MORE. I’m going to speak to myself at 12 and myself now at 39. You have worthy ideas. You have strength. You are intelligent. You are capable. You can dream. You can achieve. I see you. I hear you. Trust yourself.

Again. Trust yourself sweetheart.

put your mask on first

When you make a list of the needs and tasks in your orbit, where do you fall? Dead last? Second to last? Not even on the list? Stop it. You have to prioritize yourself. No one else is going to do it for you. Food for thought, modeling this behavior will teach your children how to care for themselves.

Real quick, I can give you two reasons to put your name on the top of your list. 1) the best thing you can give your children (I would say the world as well) is to be happy. It’s a simple as that. Children are epically narcissistic, if they see you stressed out and mad all the time, they think it’s their fault. If they see you happy and loving, they also think it’s their fault. What do you think is better for children to see? I’m currently diving into this guy’s work; Gabor Mate, explains it (and many other fascinating things) in this video. It’s long but worth every minute. https://youtu.be/07nOScAHnXI

2) When you’re happy and taking care of yourself; you’re able to take better care of others, children, parents or pets. You do better work. You make better decisions. You feel better. You look better. I’m a much more patient mother when I’m achieving a level of self care.

Put. Your. Mask. On. First.

Life is freakin short, be happy FFS! Oh, and watch that video.

just not this

Just not this. That sentiment echoed in my head on January 1, 2015. That was the day that I moved towards the life that I wanted. Just. Not. This. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t know how to get to a place I craved to be but; I accepted that the road I had traveling had ended. No more looking at my life and feeling like I could do more, be more, feel more, and love more. No more New Years resolutions to “be the mom / woman that I wanted to be”. I was going to be her now, from that moment on. No one was keeping me from what I wanted, but myself. I had to get out of my own way. The first step is always the hardest. Admitting a problem is a powerful catalyst for change.

Just not this. I repeated this sentiment later that year to a friend on the precipice of divorce. I said “you don’t have to know what’s next or what this “new world order” for you will look like, you just need to accept that this is no longer working”. Trust that once you start putting one foot in front of the other, you will get to where you’re going.

Let go of needing a plan. Let go of having to have it all figured out. You will never have it all figured out, so just start moving forward. In fact, when you have a plan, the mind tends to adhere too closely to it. I’m thinking of when expectant parents write a birth plan and suffer compounded disappointment when things don’t go as planned. (I’d love to hear birth plan vs reality stories!)

I’ll also encourage you to embrace whatever gets you to these moments in life. Jan 1 2015, was the day that I started anew. I worked on my life actively for the next 4 years. But the true next level wasn’t achieved until I started talking (even to myself) about what happened the night before, on NYE2014. I recently had a conversation with a friend, we think the first question in therapy should be “tell me the thing you think you’d tell no one”, because chances are, that’s where you’re stuck and you don’t even know it.

If there’s a disconnect in the life you have and the life you want, start moving towards it. The first step is the hardest but its possible: just not this.

mother’s day off

I’m here to promote the idea that you don’t have to be with your (young) children on Mother’s Day. How about a Mother’s Day off?  Revolutionary, I know. 

During these long years of small children, quite often a mother needs a break from it all more than anything else. Ask yourself or ask your spouse, what she reallllly wants on this day. It’s possible….. she wants to sleep in. She wants the house to be clean. She wants hugs from her kids and spouse, sure. Does she want to organize a brunch, dress everyone up, spend a meal trying to keep her children from running around with knives, probably not. You may want that, and I support that vision of mother’s day. I am highlighting the possibility that may not be your vision. I’m giving permission to define the day tailored to celebrate your motherhood. 

For about a decade now, I’ve spent my mother’s days with my mother friends. We get dressed up. We brunch. We have mimosas or Bloody Marys. We laugh. We linger. I then go home and nap. While I was gone with my friends, the kids and my husband clean the house. That’s what I do and it rules. Distance makes the heart grow fonder. Even if for a day. 

It should be noted that I’m thousands of miles from my mother. Maybe you’re close (physically and emotionally) with your mom and spend the day with her, don’t forget to give yourself some time on this day as well. Celebrate and be celebrated. Maybe you’ve lost your mother and this day makes you want to shut the blinds and watch Netflix all day. I support your choice. Perhaps you’re in the darkness of infertility and wish the whole day to disappear, ignore it and make it disappear for yourself. I support your choice.

Mother’s Day is a great day to practice self care no matter what that looks like.