It was a beautiful day....

5 Days out: might as well get a new wedding dress

Months ago, after the excitement of the proposal, I eagerly went searching for a simple, spring wedding dress.  I found one I loved.  It was short, white, lacy and simple for an intimate BBQ, spring wedding.  And on Monday it suddenly became the worst dress in the world.  60 days after purchase.  I know it was exactly 60 days because that's how many days I had to return the dress.

5 days out from my wedding (60 days after buying the dress), I walk into the bridal boutique with receipt in hand, wearing the crazed look of a woman scorned by a chilly weather forecast and a convinced increase in thigh diameter. 

Long story short, I found the dress.  Again.  This time longer and a tad more dressy and maybe harder to eat a meal in and breath and stuff like that.  When you go wedding dress shopping 5 days before your wedding, you're limited on what they have in stock.  They had the style and color dress I wanted, but it was in a size 8.  Which I didn't think was a problem since I am a size 8.

"Great!  I wear a size 8!"

"These run small."

"How small?"

"Let's try it on."

We got it zipped up (with the help of two assistants) and I stood there like that kid on that Christmas Story movie- arms straight out to the side, hindered by the fear of all my lady bits busting out if I dare relax.  I kept repeating my mantra of "I'm a size 8....I'm a size 8...." to help my body shrink to whatever magical size it was supposed to be in order to fit into this dress because this dress is the dress and has to work.

"I think you'll be fine.  What you need to do is just wear it around the house to break it in.  It will loosen it up a bit."

Roger.

Cut to the next day.  I got home from work, poured myself a gin and tonic (like ya do) and marched upstairs to put my dress on.  After attempting to zip it myself in a contortionist, huffing, puffing mess- I called out for Billy.  He walked into the room, with his eyes closed and arms out in front to feel for where I was. 

Zip.

For the next hour I sat on the couch with a quilt draped over me to protect Billy's virgin eyes, wriggling for added flexibility and "wear in."  Also drinking another gin and tonic and periodically checking the weather on my weather app.  The thumbnail image alone induces panic.

Remember when we almost went to the courthouse? Good times.......

Stay tuned. 

Eat your humble pie, then do something

I write to you from Boone, in my mother's home, in one of those recliners they make for old people with a remote control that lifts you up to a standing position when you want to get up. Go ahead, laugh, but when I decide I want to get up without using my core, I will do so at a snail's pace and enjoy every second of it, which will take exactly 30 seconds. 

I'm 2 weeks into my new job and 2 weeks out from my wedding.  A lot of changes are happening.  Good changes.  Changes I'm grateful for.   The last year has sucked.  Sucked donkey balls.  I don't think I've ever used that phrase before, but I've heard it a lot and it seems appropriate.  I've spent a good portion of the year anticipating the end of The Struggle.  The end of a shitty corporate job, the end of living in a different city as my kids, the end of wondering where all my friends went, the end of whining and bitching about how hard it is.

And so here we are...the light at the end of the tunnel is clear and vibrant.   I'm marrying the man I'm meant to be with,  my kids are coming back into my home full time next month after their school is finished and I'm in a job that fits like a glove.  But mostly?  Mostly I'm excited to have my kids back in my home.   If I ever complained about being a stay at home mom, feel free to take a crappy picture of me, with zits and love handles and unplucked brows and post on Facebook.

All that said, I'm grateful for The Struggle.  The Struggle, though awful when you're in it, is a valuable tool for refining those pesky character flaws with a big slice of humble pie.  Or helping you choose happiness when you'd rather just pout and whine.  This morning I skimmed Facebook and came across a post written by my good friend's husband, Zack.  It got me thinking...

I knew Zack when he was a struggling, single dad, working at Kinkos.  Truth be told, I remember pitying Zack and his situation.  I worked the church's nursery at the time where we all went to church and I would rock Zack's youngest son during the service, praying for this baby and his family and his situation.  Doing that noble thing people do when they are comfortable and without sin..... feeling sorry for someone from a safe, comfortable place.  Seeing the struggles of marriage, kids and jobs and feeling comforted in my good choices and favor of God.  Mistaking pity for empathy.  When really I was just so damn grateful I wasn't struggling.

Fast forward roughly 10 years...

Ha!

Ha!

Oh and ha!

Oh how wretched and wonderful it is to be humbled!

Sometimes you find yourself in places you'd never imagine.  I used to be rich.  I used to be a stay at home mom.  I used to drive a Honda Odyssey, I used to shop for clothes for fun, I used to have a $100/month Starbucks habit, I used to be comfortable.  I used to be in a marriage that people looked up to, kinda.  I used to live a life where I sat up high and looked down.  It's easy to look back and see all the things I lost.  There were many good things that I still cherish.  But my life at the time also involved alcoholism, infidelity, stress, depression, anxiety and an unshakable feeling that things were not right.  Not true.  It didn't make everything in my life a lie, but it didn't make for authentic living.

The difference now is that  I have no secrets.  I have nothing to hide.  Nothing to cover up, nothing to make up for.  I'm not searching for something to distract me from myself anymore.  I am true to myself.  I am a better person.  I am a better mother.  I am a better friend.  I have real confidence, I trust myself.   I'm not perfect.  But I have the simple pleasure of being me.  That is my art.  That is my greatest work.  That is the legacy I hope to pass on to my kids. 

It's never too late to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start seeing your potential.   If you can get up after falling down and keep believing you have something good to offer, you have discovered what most people strive to discover.  You have discovered yourself.   

It's not selfish to want to live a true life.  It's not selfish to want a life full of authenticity, creativity and beauty.  If you're not happy, do something about it.  But it won't come without a cost.  It won't be easy.  It may kill you.  But, then again, it may not. 

Spring on Pagan Hill

My mom has some property above her house that is has become this retreat of sorts.  When they first moved there, they coined it Pagan Hill because it was an unusual plot of flat land that appeared like a some sort of sacrificial ground.  Don't blame me, my parents are weird.  But this little piece of pagan land has become a haven.  An island on top of a mountain.  It's cool and green with specs of stone and wood and it makes you feel like you have no reason in the world not to be shouting in joy.  It's the place my lobster and I will give our vows to one another in front of our family and friends. And it's where feel at home.   

I thank my lucky stars for this man.  This man that will run and jump and play and cuddle with my kids.  This man that isn't fazed in the least by marrying a woman with three wild young ones, adding four to his brood.  This man that has brought so much joy to our lives.  Very soon I'll be wrapping my arms around his neck and shouting "I do!" to anyone that'll hear me.  

My kids are lucky to be getting this step dad....

I get insanely sappy in the springtime.  I get insanely sappy about my kids.  I get insanely sappy about my man.  And oh how sappy I get when they all collide together.  Life is so good.  Cheers!

7 years...

We had a great weekend full girly seven year old things like wriggling nervously in the chair before getting your ears pierced and squealing upon seeing your friends at the skating rink.  My baby girl is seven years old and I can't help but feel proud and terrified all at the same time.  Another milestone, new memories locked safely inside and that warm feeling you get when you're full of in-themoment happiness and joy.  This, my sweet girl, is something you had all weekend.  

I was the designated face painter of the bunch (I went to art school you guys).  Shep originally wanted a clown face, which turned into Joker, which turned into a Vampire.  

 I skate...

The BFFs...

Multiple cakes to eat and candles to blow out.. 

Lucky Number Seven

Seven years ago I was at the end of my pregnancy and resembled a hippopotamus. In fact, the nickname for me in my home was "potamus."  It was too funny and accurate to really be offended, so I went with it.

I had hypertension, which is fancy talk for my blood pressure being sky high and lots of swelling.  Yah me.  I was put on partial bedrest and ordered to lie on my left side for half of the day.  With my first baby, I went over my due date.  With Amelia, we knew we'd have her early at 39 weeks on the dot because of my blood pressure.  While I'm not a fan of scheduled births, I certainly enjoyed planning for that day.

When I found out I was having a girl, I went straight out and bought a pair of pink baby converse.  Those pink converse were the cornerstone to her entire wardrobe, which was purchased intermittently by friends and family throughout the pregnancy.  In fact, I had a baby shower where I accumulated nothing but baby girl shoes.  The shower was full of high pitched squeals and "Awwwwwwws."   I could have sworn I could feel Amelia jump for joy with each little nonsensical wedge I unwrapped. 

And so the day arrived.  We went for our check up and sure enough my blood pressure was raised and the doc told us to check in to the hospital that evening.  We left and had lunch at one of my favorite places in Atlanta: OK Cafe.  I ordered squash casserole and and meatloaf and sweet tea.  Afterwards I went to the grocery store to buy all the tabloid magazines I could get my hands on.  At the time, Katie Holmes just had Alien-Scientology baby Suri and I was all about reading up on that shit. I went home and spent time with my baby Fischer who was just 2 years old.  It was hard leaving him and knowing this would be the last day he would be my only child.  We sat on the front porch swing and watched my belly move back and forth with Amelia's stretching.  The day closed and we packed the car and left Fischer with my mom and headed to the hospital. 

We got settled in and after all the protocol and papers to fill out it was midnight before they put the cervidil in (a wonderfully jelly-like tampon thingy) and gave me ambien.  I assumed I'd just snooze until morning and they'd begin pitocin.  45 mins into my snooze I was woken up by a tightening low in my belly that I could barely breath through.  Having gone through labor naturally the first time, I knew this was real.  Within the hour I was breathing through them and things picked up very quickly.  I opted to have an epidural this time and thankfully it worked like a charm!  I was able to sleep for another hour before I felt an urge to push.  I kept telling the nurses that I was feeling pressure, to which they smiled and patted me and said it's too soon.  Eventually my Dr made his rounds and knocked on my door. I told him I was pretty sure a baby was coming out of my vagina.  With a quick glance, he immediately called the nurses in and informed me I was, indeed, about to push a baby out.  

To which I replied: "Where is my husband?"

The pressure seized me again and this time I had to push.  Ed walked into the room with a McMuffin and wide eyes, unaware that this was actually happening....now.  My first birth was a gut wrenching, drama filled 20 hours.  I expected nothing less, except an edpidural.  My doctor was quickly getting himself dressed in the blue paper gown and snapped on his latex gloves quickly.  Watching her head crown while a nurse tied the back of his gown together, my doctor laughed nervously and asked if my last birth was so fast.

"You were there.  I pushed 4 hours.  There was some sort of roadblock in my vagina." 

And then another uncontrollable urge to push came and my daughter slipped into this world.  In a matter of seconds I was a mother again.   I heard my daughter cry and her perfect pink body was placed on my chest.  I cried and she cried and I held her close.  I remember noting that she and Fischer both had identical cries as newborns.  She immediately wanted to nurse and took to me like clockwork. I remember glowing with joy and happiness.  Not a care in the world.  That wonderful post birth, natural cocktail that makes you feel high as a kite.  It was dreamy.

It's funny having a baby look so different from your first.  When Fischer came out, he was fury and dark.  Amelia was blond and pink.  When she cried, they were tiny little eruptions of squeaks.  I called her Squeaker Bell.  She loves hearing that I called her Squeaker Bell.  We settled into our postpartum room and friends and family came to see us all afternoon.  My mom brought Fischer and he gave a quick once over of Amelia, then asked my mom if he could go get a bike.

 As evening closed in, I sent Ed home to get real sleep and be with Fischer.  I was anxious to have quiet time with my baby girl alone.  I sat in my bed and pulled out my bag with all the pretty clothes I had packed.  Like a little girl playing dress up, I carefully dressed my baby girl in a white onesie with pink polka dots and pink booties  I put on the white hat I knitted her days before.  And then I stared and stared and stared.  I stared at her little nails.  I watched her do that cute thing newborns do when they suck in their sleep.  I kept removing her hat off to inhale that all too addictive Baby Head Smell.  I fell in love so hard that night.  I had a daughter.  And I was proud and excited. 


I remain proud and excited.  This daughter of mine has taught me how to be mother and woman.  To love myself because I love her.  To affirm her in her independence and sauciness and creativity. 
Amelia, you are a beautiful, brave, smart little cookie.  You are as girly as they come, but have the capacity to tough it out with all your brothers.  You can become easily hot headed, but will eventually listen to reason and repent of all your sins.  You are loyal and compassionate.  You don't like anyone feeling left out.  You love art and beauty and chase after it.  I pray you never loose that desire.  You are going to find your path and anyone lucky enough to cross it will be given a gift.  I love you sweet girl!  Happy Birthday!

Good Things: They are a coming!

I've learned to roll with the punches lately.  I'm convinced that things do happen for a reason.  Kinda.  I've always hated it when people said that, but they do kinda happen for a reason sometimes. I'm so utterly grateful for the job that brought me to Asheville.  Through that process I met Billy, with whom I can't imagine doing life without.  And this job also allowed me to provide for my kids, even though the hours and distance have sucked.  But after having been hired, my hours have changed twice.  I've gone from 8-5, to 9-6:30, to 10:20 -7:30.  That's a pretty drastic change.  It's been rough on me, the kids, Billy and even my ex.  I've been on the job hunt for the right place and the right time for months now. 

Thankfully that time has come and I have found a job where I feel my skill set and talents are valued and used in a way that feeds my soul and adds value to the company.  A place I can see myself long term.  A creative and fast paced environment, which I love.  No job is perfect.  But when you work in a job that eats away at you all day, it doesn't do much for life enrichment.  Not to mention the horrible, no good hours.  But corporate jobs are secure jobs, so I stayed there as long as it made sense.

This season has been a rough one.  It's easy to get cynical and mad.  To blame the world for everything that's ever happened to me.  Truth is, I'm responsible for my own decisions and outcomes. I, like any other human being, have made bad choices and mistakes I regret.  The beauty in getting old is that you grow wiser.  Getting wiser has mostly sucked.  It  hurts.  It's humbling.  It forces growth.  But it's all for the better.  I know life is striking a balance.  That piercing glare of hardship is dulling.  I can see clearly (you're totally singing that song) and have hope. 

This past weekend we celebrated new beginnings.... a new job and wedding preparations!  We spent the weekend visiting with friends and prepping the wedding site (my mom's mountain land).  Seeing our little patch of land we're getting hitched on come together has both of us excited.

Here's a sneak peak:

Me and my baby sister.  Love this girl.  

Billy and I playing for the camera.  The first is our "celebrity paparazzi" pose. 

 

My girl Sarah and her man, Quint.  

Isn't Quint a cool name?  

We're crazy for each other.  So glad this man is my man. 

This picture is blurry, but I love it.  

Here's me after I got the call that I got the job.  I was two drinks in on an empty stomach before dinner. I was attempting to put my phone in a pocket that didn't exist on my jean jacket.

These two are already buddies.  My family loves Billy and vice versa.  

It's Spring.  Let the bulbs shoot up in colors, let the air get warm and dream-like, let new life begin and let's drink some wine!