My Delusions of Being a Pinterest Mom

I have officially kept a human being alive for 2 1/2 years. I know, big feat right? But seriously, in my eyes, that’s pretty amazing.

Motherhood is by far one of the most interesting experiences you will ever have in your life. I’ll never forget the day Justin and I found out that we were expecting. You get filled with all of these emotions and this whole world flashes before your eyes. For nine months you constantly think of this little being inside of your body that will eventually make it’s way into the world and become a human being of worth (we hope!).

I remember making all of these plans, all of these visions for the future. I was determined to be that perfect “Pinterest” mom. You know, the one who diligently photographs her child with cute little props every month, the one who creates all sorts of fun and interesting activities to take up the free time. The mom who cooks and cleans and is creative and fun, but at the same time steadfast and sturdy as a parent should be. I had so many plans.

And then there we sat, March 3, 2013 with this tiny little baby in our arms. We were both so high on emotions everything was a blur. This beautiful little being that we had created was so perfect and so terrifying all at once. I just remember being so elated with our lives and our little family.

Jacob was a calm baby. So calm in fact that Justin and I could hardly believe he was ours (were both very hyper/active people). Jacob was an observer, he would just sit for hours watching everything we did. But once he was able, he was also quick to get involved. Sitting up on time, crawling and climbing like crazy, and finally walking. When he turned one we realized we were in for it. Jacob was turning out to be just as active as we were, and then some.

I tried to be Pinterest mom. I really did. I’ve never had much of an eye for DIY creativity, but I figured I could make up for my lack of DIY skills with my love, stability, cooking skills and by researching everything I possibly could about how babies/children learn. I enrolled him in an organization called Parents as Teachers so that once a month we would have an instructor come into our home and help us navigate the waters of parenting/teaching Jacob. (PAT has been such a blessing.) We began teaching him sign language, which he picked up on very quickly and that helped break down so many communication barriers for Jacob and Justin.

It became very apparent, very quickly that we had a little smarty pants on our hands. I do credit some of it to the sheer fact that I ensure he is learning. At 2 1/2 he can identify most of his numbers between 1-13, he usually knows his colors (he likes to play games…lol). He can for the most part sing his ABCs and even identifies letters on a regular basis. He is one of the most observant 2 year-olds I’ve ever met.

But that doesn’t mean we don’t have normal 2 year old struggles. He is also incredibly defiant and stubborn just like both of his parents. See, while I am so busy trying desperately to be the prefect Pinterest mom I have to remind myself that its a feat in itself for me to even still have custody of him.

Abuse is a cycle, and its one I’ve been determined to break. I was in foster care before I was ever even a year old, so when Jacob turned one, as sad as this may sound to people who grew up in normal homes, I was ecstatic. I had a mini celebration with myself because as of that moment I had officially broken this cycle of abuse. And now at 2 1/2 the broken cycle is definitely no more.

That’s not to say that I don’t struggle. Because I do. I’m beginning to understand that most parents have a love/”omg wtf was i thinking” relationship with their children. There are times when (and yes, I’m going to admit this, any honest person would) I would just as soon chuck the child out the window and move on with life. But we all know that isn’t an option, and even if it were I could never in a million years do as such. But see, my impulses go one step further.

I was raised with spankings, slaps, pushes, pinches, bites, etc. I was raised to believe that discipline was either violent, or monotonous chores, and if I didn’t do those chores there was sometimes violence involved to get me jump-started. So my first reaction when Jacob acts out is to hit. There was a month or two there where my stress levels were so high that I found myself swatting Jacob more than necessary and having no patience with him at all.

I’m honestly so ashamed to admit that. To admit that I’ve lost my temper enough with him that I did pre-emptively spank him. And then one evening, as I was putting Jacob back in bed for probably the 20th time that night, he looks me dead in my eye and says:

“Mommy, don’t be mad. Please don’t scream and spank me. I’m sorry.”

God, just writing this now makes me want to cry. My heart broke right there and I realized that I had indeed been losing my temper too much. I was relying on a quick swat to get my point across when in reality what he needed was stability, understanding and consistency. I was reverting back to how I was raised instead of thinking through the situation and using the tools I’ve learned as an adult to handle them.

Being a parent is never easy. Being a parent when you come from an abusive background is practically mind boggling. I can’t begin to express how much PAT has helped me to navigate these waters with ease. Don’t get me wrong, I still lose my temper. We all do, we all will. But it’s definitely how we deal with those moments when we realize that were wrong that defines who we are as parents.

I am no Pinterest mom. I’ve come to terms with this. My house isn’t perfect, I don’t have DIY crafts all over the place or expertly created gifts from scratch. I don’t have all of the answers either, hell some days I can hardly believe I’m 26, married and the parent of a 2 year old.

But I am loving, caring, and understanding. I do try to teach my child as much as I possibly can about this world and to be a good role model. I’m going to make mistakes, aren’t we all?

To this day I am so terrified that I am going to damage him for life. I’m so scared of losing control. I am determined to continue my cycle-breaking and to be the absolute best parent to that child that I can be.

Someone once told me that the sheer fact that I am even worried about how my behavior impacts my child is a sign that I am an incredible parent. It’s something that I remind myself of occasionally, especially when I feel that I am failing. And to be honest, just that little bit of advice makes a world of difference.

P.S. You don’t have to be a “Pinterest Mom” to be an amazing parent.

“I would walk in your shoes, but I’m afraid they’re a half size too small…”

I am incredibly opinionated. I feel like this might be one of the first things people notice about me (besides my crazy hair colors, my pessimistic but hyper attitude, and my “spaztastic” body movements) because I am always passionately spewing about some issue or another. In today’s society, I guess everyone is incredibly opinionated and everyone feels that everyone else needs to hear this glorious, mind-altering opinion, myself included. And I have no issues with this! I think it’s so incredibly important for us as a society to have healthy conversations and debates about the topics that are relevant to our every day lives. I want to know that my best friend in the world doesn’t agree with my opinion so that moving forward we can agree to disagree and maybe in some semblance of the world I can have an opportunity to understand what he/she has conveyed to me.

But that’s just the problem. We have all these “opinion-givers” but not a single one of them have walked a mile in someone’s shoes besides their own.  They’ve all been blinded by “their” way of life and their views and opinions that the idea that someone else could experience something completely different in the exact same situation is mind-boggling to them. Haven’t we learned by now that perception is truly unique?

I have always been excellent at being objective. Maybe it’s the “I’ve been a victim, but done the victimizing as well” thing, who knows. But I’ve always tried my best to understand all facets of a situation, to form my opinion based off of that and to also understand that not everyone will feel the way that I do (though sometimes their blatant disregard of the facts that led me to this opinion AMAZES me.)

So all of that being said, this whole “Black Lives Matter” “All Lives Matter” movement is just…in reality FRUSTRATING. Why does it have to be “this group vs. this group”? Why don’t people see that this is a problem on multiple levels not just one or the other.

This is not a “BLACK” problem. This is not a “Police Brutality” problem. This is a combined society problem in which we have this new age where young parents aren’t held accountable for their actions, their children aren’t held accountable for their actions, law enforcement personnel aren’t being held responsible for their actions. In our world today everyone else is to blame for everyone’s problems.

“Not enough money to pay my bills? Oh, my boss doesn’t give me a fair wage for my job, forget the fact that I blew through 50$ on that trip to the bar last week. Oh my electric bill is too high? Goodness, we should find a new provider with cheaper rates because GOD FORBID I turn off more lights to conserve energy. My child acts up in school? What is that teacher doing to cause this? What are his peers doing? Why is everyone treating him this way? ”

I’m sure you get the picture.

These issues stem so much deeper than face value racism or power struggles. This stems from a generalized disrespect for law enforcement and the breakdown of our “black” neighborhoods or however you want to put it. You have these police officers with “God Complexes”. I promise you I know at least three people that I went to school with who were bullied relentlessly who in turn became police officers merely so they could bully others. It’s a vicious cycle. It should be an honor to serve and protect, and instead its an entitlement.

Why aren’t we as a society focusing on all of these issues and banding together to fix them instead of pointing fingers and placing blame? Stop generalizing people, stop uniting against each other and unite against the ones tearing us apart.

Racism is still more than alive in America. And yes, it’s incredibly sad. You see all these statistics flying around about this and that, murders and robberies, blacks vs. whites, etc., etc. Can we please focus more on the oppression from our government? The freedoms that are being taken away daily. The incessant demand for all to as “politically” correct as possible.

And on top of all this Police Vs. Black people crap you have this “Christianity is a Victim” “LGBT communities are victims.”  I’m a firm believer in mind your own damn business. If you don’t like what your neighbor is doing close your blinds (unless of course he is blatantly committing a crime such as robbery/murder/rape.) Seriously! Christianity is not the law of the land and I’m tired of people attempting to make it so.

I have an utter respect for religion, but I feel as if this whole attempting to shape our nations laws around one religion is ridiculous. Yes we were built on christian foundations, but that’s because at the time we were escaping catholicism so we could PRACTICE christianity. Freedom of religion. Freedom of legal prosecution because of religion. etc. etc. etc.

GOODNESS. I could seriously rant for hours. But this post isn’t to express my opinions one way or another, but to merely put emphasis on the fact that everyone seems to be looking at the surface of these issues but no one wants to face whats really going on underneath. No one wants to look that “thug” in the eye and say “you know what, you’re right, I do have white privilege and you are being targeted.” or that police officer:  “You know what, you’re right, you do face a lot of adversity today and risk your life, but please remember you are not above the law.”

Shit…do we need a high school mediator? I volunteer as tribute!!!

So while you’re reading this post and thinking of your own experiences and thoughts on all of this chaos, take two seconds to think about things on the other side of the fence. Think about your “opinionated opponent” and what might be happening to cause them to feel this way. Most streets go two ways, and if they don’t, someone has gone the wrong way at least once without consequence…don’t be afraid to do it again.

Once the Ocean, Now the Mountain

Once upon a time, in another life it seems, I lived in sunny West Palm Beach, Florida. My whole life was stretched before me with its seemingly endless supply of opportunities and the constant promise of new horizons. I was young, I was eager, and I pretty much assumed I knew everything. I was like that of the oceans that surrounded my home.

My favorite place has always been near a body of water, ocean obviously winning out for its immense size and mystery. So many times throughout my life I have found my most peaceful moments staring out over a rippling body of water contemplating life and all its grandeur.

Water in itself was always such an excellent metaphor for my life and who I am. What seemed calm and collected on the top was really teeming with movement and energy inside. Each emotion wiggling around like that of the fish, each moment in time a plant growing from the bottom of the water-bed splitting currents and altering the paths of the life the water holds. The only time you see the water churning immensely is in times of great storms. I always felt these movements fit me to a T.

It’s been years since I’ve lived close to the ocean, though every time I return to Florida I make it a point to go and sit in the sand for a time. Kansas has many waterways and many lakes that are beautiful, some even speaking more loudly to me than the Ocean. You see, while there is so much possibility in a horizon that never ends, it is so comforting to see the other side of the water. To know that everything comes full circle, even the tumultuous waves of life rippling in front of you.

Full circle…I swear this post is going there! My family and I recently ventured out to Colorado for a family vacation (First one! Yay!) and while there we attended a Dinosaur Museum. This Museum was wonderful, small but FULL of all sorts of interesting facts and fossils. One of the most interesting things to me was an entire room dedicated to Prehistoric Marine Life. Once upon a time Kansas itself was a waterway, or a “sea” of sorts if you will. As Pangea drifted apart the low elevation levels allowed the earth to fill in with water. Nearly every fossil in this room had been dug up in Kansas.

So maybe somewhere in my heart when I moved here I knew that I needed that Ocean still…but I needed a firm foundation as well. And Kansas has definitely given that to me by supplying me with a stable life and family and an excellent place to build my own life and make my own decisions.

But it was this trip to Colorado that really got me thinking about geographic locations, the reflection of nature in our lives, etc. I had never seen Mountains in person before, and I was so moved and taken aback. The landscape is just beautiful. The way these majestic peaks just rise out of the ground and tower over everything just leaves you feeling so full of emotion.

And it was on this trip that I decided that I prefer mountains over water. You see, Mountains are the result of extreme and tumultuous activity. Tectonic plates shifting in the ground causing massive earthquakes which then cause these huge structures to explode from the ground and loom over all. These majestic peaks are the result of incredibly hard work and at times traumatizing experiences. Never moving, but always changing, growing.

I am those mountains. I will be those mountains for the rest of my days. I will stand strong in the face of adversity, I will stand tall knowing what I have been through. And while I stand at the tops of those peaks, I will still know never ending opportunity for I will see the horizon and I will know that beyond that are more horizons and more Oceans and more Mountains.

Out of the Ocean I have risen and at the top of my Mountain will I stand.

How a Broken Crayon Becomes the End of the World

“I promise to write every day…” Words I have spoken, written, and screamed at the top of my lungs so many times it’s not even funny. It’s a phenomenal concept, and really shouldn’t be incredibly difficult to achieve.

Until that Wednesday when you’re just so incredibly busy with work, and house work and taking care of a toddler that it completely slips your mind and before you know it it’s Thursday morning and you’ve broken your promise to yourself and you feel like an utter failure and then you begin to think of all your shortcomings and how many times you’ve tried to write and all the times you’ve failed and all the times you’ve stared at that blank page willing it to be full of meaningful words. And then you begin to think about the reasons you write and the events leading up to this moment and how you’re entire life has been one big giant never-ending struggle of chaos and instability and then you begin to second-guess every tiny decision you’ve ever made including that time six months ago when you accidentally switched lanes on the highway without a blinker and that driver got so upset with you that he flipped you off…

Anxiety is an evil thing. It takes root into your very being and before you know you’re spiraling out of control and crying over a crayon you broke in the 2nd grade.

I’ve been wholly aware of my anxiety situation for quite sometime now, but it wasn’t until recently that I really understood the implications my anxiety had on my everyday behaviors. I recently was diagnosed with GERDS, and through my gastroenterologist and my therapist we came to the conclusion that the severity of my GERDS was directly related to the severity of my anxiety. No joke. For months I would wake up early in the morning with my heart racing, my extremities numb and the overwhelming need to be sick. And I would be, for hours I would hunch over that toilet crying and dry heaving, physically unable to get a handle on myself.

Scientists and Doctors have known the physical implications of stress for a long time, but it is literally amazing what it can do to your body, the way it breaks down your systems and causes so many different reactions. I served tables for a long time, and I blossomed in the fast paced environment. However, after ten years of performing in the industry my health began to decline. I was sick constantly, so exhausted and irritated, the stress of things was even beginning to show up in my lab work (my liver enzymes shot through the roof for a good six months before I finally switched industries.) I finally had to come to terms with the fact that my anxiety was getting worse and I needed to find a career that was less stressful so that I could still bring in an income but work diligently on my anxiety issues as well. (And I did so.)

That second paragraph; you know, the one you were reading at an ever-quickening pace while your heart started to pound and you wondered where this was going and if it was ever going to end and why was there so much crammed into that tiny little space…that’s my brain almost everyday. This snowball effect takes over your very being and you become so overwhelmed with yourself that small feats, such as locking a difficult front door, become tearful, complicated endeavors in which you really just want to say screw it and leave the door unlocked. (If you can’t tell I’ve literally lived that moment…)

Is there hope for my anxiety? Well of course. With every therapy session we break down one more ingrained behavior, analyze the reasons behind it and help to come to terms with the effects. They say the first step is admitting you have a problem, and its true. Once you admit and recognize the signs for what they are you start to realize how much of an impact your “issue” had on your entire being. How much it really controls your life and your actions.

I am currently in the process of attempting to get my control back. It isn’t easy, especially with therapy. You tend to bring up emotions that haven’t surfaced in a long time and you sink down into this black pit of despair that you swore you had already climbed out of years ago. But that too passes.

I am incredibly…(funny I want to say “blessed” but I avoid that word at all costs, and I don’t necessarily believe in luck either…so I guess I want to say that I am…) PRIVILEGED to have some amazingly supportive people in my life. Some who have watched me grow into the person I am slowly becoming and others who are just now starting to realize my crazy but accept me for it. People who may not always know the right things to say but they always try.

So, all of that being said, here goes:

I do NOT promise to write everyday. However I do promise to write as my soul permits and not to beat myself up for the days that I cannot. I promise to continue working through my anxiety and sharing my struggles, my successes and my never-ending journey of questioning everything. Hopefully, through all of this, not only will I help myself, but I will help so many others who feel just like I do every day.

Allow Me To Introduce Myself…

Oh the blank page…

It’s such a catch 22. I see the potential for all my thoughts to come coalescing onto the page, but I also see the very bane of my writer’s existence: What to put there?

Throughout the years I’ve tried to begin numerous projects; from poetry books, (which I still have and would LOVE to publish) to short stories, (which have been published) and even some notebooks that are literally just full of random words and doodles. I’m sure this is what every writer’s portfolio looks like. Every idea they’ve ever had just waiting to be developed and turned into a masterpiece.

I’ve been told that every writer has a story, one story that was meant for them to write. I’ve struggled with that for most of my life thinking that this pertained to me specifically, what with my horrendous childhood and the need to put the entire story on paper. So in every notebook, in every computer, in every writing medium I could get my hands on, I would start my life story.

I almost think writing about a true situation is ten times more difficult that creating a fictional world in your head (though the latter will never cease to impress me!). There are so many emotions, and one-sided perspectives that it’s difficult to encompass the true capacity of the story. It’s been incredibly important for me to remind myself that not every story has a villain, and not every villain is necessarily evil. And it is with this basis that I know my story will take precedence.

For me though, writing has never been about recognition, or communication. It’s been about escape and release. Writing became a huge part of how I survived my childhood. It became the only thing that I could control and the only thing that in reality could not hurt me. So I latched on to reading and writing with a vengeance.

In the beginning it was just a journal, a random outpouring of my daily woes, my inner thoughts. As I began to discover that I was actually fairly fluent in getting my thoughts on paper these “journals” morphed into cohesive poetry. Not always a rhyming scheme, but always with the same themes: darkness, despair and abuse. These were the emotions that I had buried so deep down inside of me so as not to deal with them, and suddenly here they all were coming out onto the pages in front of me.

At first I was incredibly nervous, some of it was so dark. I shared one of the originals with my mother and to my surprise she wasn’t horrified at my morbidity. In fact she was surprised more by the fact that I felt these emotions, that I had these perspectives on my life and the things that had happened to me. She encouraged me to continue, which I avidly did, it seemed this was the only way I could really make sense of the swirling emotions and anxiety in my head.

And thus, the Author in me was born. Don’t get me wrong, this was not my first experience with writing, just maybe the most meaningful for me. I began to carry notebooks everywhere and I would literally write every thought that came out of my head. I had pages and pages filled with poems, random conclusions, the spoken words of those around me. If anyone besides me tried to read them it would just a big jumbled mess of words and sentences, but to me, they were like my bible. The words I lived by, the emotions I felt on a day to day basis.

As the abuse got worse, my writing got darker and more frequent. It was fueling my writing habits so much I almost relished in the darkness that constantly seemed to run my life. I was terrified that if terrible things quit happening to me I would no longer be able to write. Funny thing, I allowed that notion to actually cause me to quit writing.

When I was 16 I was technically adopted by an amazing family, and I came to them at probably my darkest of times. I was a cutter, incredibly depressed, desperately trying to escape the demons of my past. The family I found ended up being the most supportive, amazing people I have ever met, and as I healed under their guidance my writing began to subside some, but also began to take a turn. Instead of writing meaningful thoughts about the serious situations I had been involved in and their leftover emotions, I began to focus on superficial things, arguments with friends and boyfriends. I began to feel happier and more solid with my place in the world, and as that happened my desire to write about dark depressing things went away.

It was around this time that I came to the conclusion that I could not write about happy things and therefore could not effectively continue to write. In the years after this I constantly feel the yearning to write but I could never really get what I wanted out onto the page. Before it was like I was reaching into some deep part of me that just needed to be released on occasion, but in my early adult years I felt like the emotions I experienced about day to day life were shameful and not worthy of writing. I regret this now, I feel the continued therapy would have been so helpful.

These days I still use writing as a form of therapy, but I also have a huge desire to take it somewhere and be successful with it. I suppose my writing habits have matured along with my personality, which I suppose goes without saying. I still desperately want to get my story out there for the world to see, but I don’t feel as if it is so important for me anymore.

It’s important for the thousands of people who have been through traumatic situations and either can relate and have overcome as well, or momentarily find it impossible to ever move forward and need to know that someone, somewhere out there was able to. It’s important to the children who are so engrossed in surviving their own personal hell that the idea of being a successful adult doesn’t even begin to cross their minds. For the parents that have been through so much and are now raising children and want desperately to know that their parenting behaviors are defined by how THEIR parents dealt with things. And for the strangers out there who have never know suffering, so that maybe they can understand that childhood trauma can literally cripple your very being and inhibit your every way of life.

I write so no one ever has to feel like I did: alone, broken  and confused. I write so that people will understand myself and my past. But mostly, I write so that I know that there is life after Trauma, and I’m a living example of it.