Skinny Jeans

The 1980's were not the most fashionable time for me.  Harem pants, permed hair, banana clips, jelly shoes, mirrored sunglasses with hot pink frames, and, best of all, tight-rolled jeans.  I know you know what I'm talking about.  You take the hem of your jeans and roll it inward, talking up any slack, then roll upwards two or three times until you have an extreme taper at the ankle.  Whoever thought up this fad should have been strangled with his own pair of tight-rolled jeans.  It was not a good look for anyone.

I've noticed lately that those fashion trends from the 1980's are starting to come back.  The thing about fads though is that you think they're cute when you're in them.  I like the tight black leggings with the tall leather boots.  I like the skinny jeans with long tops and brightly-colored flats.  The difference between now and the 80's is that I now know that these styles don't look good on me.  The tight leggings accentuate my larger thighs.  The long, baggy shirts hide my smaller waist.  Even though I'd love to wear them, I've officially written them off as not for me.  

Until now...

A recent girl's trip to the Pacific Northwest required me to pack rain boots.  I have the cutest pair of rain boots that the kids gave me for my birthday.  I don't get to wear them very often, but when I do, I've noticed that the hem of my boot-cut jeans drags on the ground and gets all wet - not pretty.  So when I began packing for this trip I quickly realized that I needed some new, boot-friendly pants.  A quick Google search on the latest rainy day fashion revealed the most popular choices - leggings and skinny jeans.  

Oh no.  No way.  Not gonna happen.

The next day I find myself in an Old Navy fitting room with my three-year-old son and a pair of Rock Star Super Skinny Jeans that "look good on every shape".  

Deep breath.  You can do this.

I slide those puppies on and zip them up as fast as I can.  Hmm...not awful,  but I need something to cover my butt.  I pull on a baggy white tee and a pretty green Boyfriend Sweater.  

Wow.  They actually look good.  And they will look even better with my rain boots.

I take my $75 purchase and head home.  "You look great!" exclaims my husband.  "Mama, you look so pretty!" croons my daughter.  I'm feeling good.

It wasn't until the night before my trip that I realized it.  My rain jacket was too short for my new outfit.  That green boyfriend sweater totally hung down a good six inches below the bottom of my jacket.  Man!  Which looks worse - the dangling green sweater or the rolled up boot-cut jeans?  

In the end, I returned the skinny jeans et al and just packed my regular old clothes for the trip.  And you know what?  I didn't once look down at my cuffed pants.  I was too busy catching up with my dear, sweet friend (who doesn't give a flip about what I look like) and enjoying every moment of our beautiful vacation together.  

And that, my friends, is what life is all about.  It's not about fitting in or being accepted because of the way you look.  It's about surrounding yourself with people that love you just the way you are.  

And learning to love yourself in return.  

Nap Time

I love naps.  I mean, I really love naps.  One does not realize the beauty (and necessity) of a nap until one has children.  That feeling of curling up under the sheets while the sun streams in from the window.  Or covering yourself with a throw while the rain patters down on the rooftop.  Ah, there's nothing like a nap.

Studies show that a 20-minute power nap is perfect for recharging the brain and the body and leaves you feeling refreshed and ready to conquer the rest of the day.  But I don't take a 20-minute power nap.  No, no, no.  What's the point in that?  By the time you get to sleep you have to wake up.  It's much too stressful for me.   My naps last much longer.  I can sleep a good 1.5 to 3 hours and awake with tousled hair and a drool-stained pillow.  That's my idea of a good nap.

I've been napping that way ever since my youngest child was born - that was 6 years ago.  It's my favorite part of the day, really.  I look forward to it the way you would look forward to an overdue date night with your husband.  Nap time means that I can shut out the world for a little while and just attend to me.

The only problem is that I'm not finding nap time refreshing anymore.  It's really just one of those things that's not working for me but I keep doing it anyway because it's what I know (I have a long list of those).  Don't get me wrong, I still love to nap, but when I wake up, I don't feel refreshed - I feel groggy.  I'm frustrated that the items on my to-do list aren't getting done because I spent my free time napping.  I don't want to play with my kids when they get home from school because I'm focused on all the stuff that didn't get done that day.

So I have decided to give...up....the....nap.....!!!!

For the past few days, in an effort to evoke change (see Waiting for Change) I've replaced napping with laundry, writing, cooking, cleaning, watching my favorite TV shows, and frittering my time away on Facebook.  Some of these things I enjoy more than others (none of them do I enjoy more than napping), but at least I'm getting stuff done.  And I feel good about it.  I actually feel better than I do after an hour of sleep.  And a nice tall glass of caffeinated iced tea helps!

Waiting for Change

Bless me blog, for I have sinned.  It has been 40 days since my last blog post.  That can only mean one thing:  I've hit on something big.  And I don't want to deal with it.  I don't want to think about it or talk about it or write about it.  I don't want to share it with anyone - not even myself.  I want to tuck it neatly away in that corner of my brain where uncomfortable feelings go to die.

But, alas, I'm trying really hard not to do that anymore.  The point of this blog is to keep me in touch with my feelings and share my struggles and triumphs with you, my readers.

So...here goes (better late than never):

I am waiting for change.

I am sitting around doing the same old things I've been doing for the past few years, waiting for something different to happen.  I am not taking an active part in my quest for change.  Do you ever do that?  Just wait for things to be different as if you have no control over them yourself?

I am waiting to all of a sudden wake up one day and no longer struggle with food but I am not really doing the work I need to be doing in order to get there.  I am waiting to lose weight but not really changing the way I eat.  I am waiting for my muscles to get stronger but am still using those same 5lb. weights that I've been lifting for the past three years.  I am waiting to enjoy my life more, but am stuck in the same-old routine.  I am just waiting for change - and I'm going to be waiting a long time unless I take control of that change myself.

I've always felt like change is something that happens TO me rather than something of which I'm in control.  That's ironic, because I'm the ultimate control freak.  But it's just so much easier to not have any responsibility in the change process.  I'd rather just sit back, think really hard about it, and wait for the change to come to me.   You know, will it to happen.

That's not gonna cut it, honey.

Well, now that the cat's out of the bag, I suppose you want to know what my plans are.  What am I going to do differently to orchestrate this change?

I don't freaking know!  I've only just realized I have a problem.  Give me some time to figure it out.  But I promise not to leave you hanging for too long.

What Gives?

Perfectionist:  a person who is displeased by anything that does not meet very high standards

I'm a perfectionist.  I get it from my mom.  My perfectionism is pretty mild by her standards but I'm a perfectionist just the same.  Nothing is ever good enough for me.  I am always striving to do better, to be better.  It's exhausting.  

I thought I'd actually improved over the years.  My house does not have to be spotless anymore. I can leave home without showering or putting on makeup (with two small kids, I'd never get out of the house otherwise). I no longer feel the need to scrub the baseboards before my mother comes to visit.  In reality, though, I haven't become less of a perfectionist; I've just focused my high standards elsewhere - meal planning, couponing, cooking, mothering.

Since my post entitled sMOTHERed my husband has been graciously trying to help me find some rest and rejuvenation.  It's nothing he didn't know already, but I think seeing my feelings of exhaustion written out like that made what I'm going through all the more real for him.  So today he comes home from church (I've been staying home on Sundays for some much-needed alone time) and tells me that they talked about resting; that in today's fast-paced society, we often can't keep up a sustainable pace without rest.  

So he asks me what is one thing I see him doing that is not sustainable at the pace at which he's going.  That's easy: his job.  

Next, he asks me what is one thing I'm doing that is not sustainable.  I know the answer, but I don't want to utter it aloud so I ask him to tell me: trying to be a perfect mother.  

YOWZA!!  He hit that nail on the head.  Have I told you how brilliant and my husband is?  Well, I don't always appreciate it.  

"You've got to let something go, Renee" he tells me.  "You can't sustain this pace anymore."

He's right.  He's totally right.  But here's the rub:  

When you're a perfectionist, it seems like there's nothing you're able to let go of.  If you're not going to do it perfectly, then you might as well not do it at all.  So what gives?

Do I stop planning tasty, healthy, economical meals for my family and purchase a bunch of frozen convenience meals instead?  This would go against our goal of eating less processed food.

Do I stop spending hours each week matching grocery sale adds to coupons in order to get the most groceries for our money?  Nope.  Our budget just doesn't allow for that.

Do I stop scouring Pinterest for ideas and tips to add to my ongoing spreadsheet for our upcoming Disney vacation?  What if I miss something that could make or break our time there?  

There's never a good answer for me.  I know it's ridiculous and I know that if I don't let something go right now, I'm going to implode (that's probably why I'm lying in bed right now nursing a cold).      

The essential message about rest is this:  

Your life moves to a better place when you move at a sustainable pace. 

I want my life to move to a better place.  I want to feel happier and calmer and more rested.  And the universe has just helped me take a baby step in that direction.  While I'm in bed sick, my husband is in charge.  He's deciding what to cook; he's deciding when to clean up; he's deciding how to entertain the kids.  It's not at ALL how I would do it, but you know what?  I'm finding myself able to look the other way and enjoy the bigger gift he's giving me.

The gift of rest.  

Encouragement

Just when you think you can't take anymore, God sends you a message to carry on.  Watch this video of sweet little Joel and his amazingly strong mom.  If she can do it, so can I.  

Keep your tissues handy!

sMOTHERed

I've been finding myself drawn to my bed a lot lately - not wanting to get up in the morning, napping during the day, spending my alone time watching TV or surfing the web from the comfort of my mattress.  This behavior can only mean one thing:  I've got emotions that want to come out and I don't want to deal with them. 

I absolutely HATE feeling my emotions and I'll do just about anything to stuff them down.  My preferred methods of stuffing are eating and curling up in my bed under a thick layer of blankets.  I've been doing the latter for a couple of weeks now.  

I started this blog as a way of helping myself get in touch with my emotions - a diary of sorts.  It's my accountability partner.  The plan is that when I feel the slightest twinge of anger or sadness or guilt or despair, I write about it.  But sometimes, I push those feelings so far down that I don't even recognize they're there.  That is, until they come bubbling up to the surface.

Yesterday, they came bubbling up in the form of anger.  

My daughter woke up with what appeared to be a sinus infection, so I planned to keep her home from school and take her to the doctor at 8:00 am.  In the 45-minutes before we left the house, I had to feed my children, help them get dressed, clean up the kitchen, get myself dressed and pile us all in the car.  There was no time for coffee or food for myself.  By the time we got home from the doctor's office and pharmacy, it was 10:00 am and I was pretty cranky.  I just wanted to sit down with my latte and have some breakfast.  But no; the kids were ready for a snack and my daughter wanted tea with honey and they couldn't find the TV remote and I had to put away some groceries and the dishwasher needed to be emptied.  The more I told them to wait the more impatient my kids got until I explained (read: yelled) that I wasn't doing anything else for them until I had a chance to have my coffee and egg sandwich.  I was angry the rest of the day.

I know you moms can relate to this.  

I've been doing the stay-at-home mom thing for the past 6 years.  It's a job I have truly enjoyed, but it has been one of the hardest jobs I have ever done in my entire life.  It comes with very little time off and even fewer vacations.  There are no sick days and I don't get paid.  Don't even get benefits.  The hours are long and I don't get enough time to myself.  Crazy, huh?  Who would take a job like that?  

But being a stay-at-home mom does have its benefits, the biggest of which is that I get to mold and shape and discover more about these two little beings of mine every day.  

But I've never really been one to focus much on the positive.  And right now I really want to quit this job.  I'm exhausted all the time, I've completely lost touch with who I am and what I enjoy.  When I do have alone time, I have no idea what to do with myself so I just fill the hours with errands, emails, and naps.  I have lost my sense of self.  I have lost my passion.  Every day just runs into the next.  More giving of myself until there is nothing left.  I feel like an empty shell of a person.  If I have to give one more thing to one more person I'm going to scream!

My friends will all tell you that I am a fabulous mom - creative and caring and patient.  And, yes, all of that is true.  But it's taking everything I have to be that way.  When do I get something for me?

I should be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel.  My kids are 6 and 3.  One is in Kindergarten and the other in preschool 2-3 mornings a week.  I actually have alone time during the day for the first time in six years.  It should start to feel easier, shouldn't it?  Aren't I supposed to start feeling more refreshed?  Instead, I feel smothered; like someone's holding a pillow over my head and it's hard to breathe.  

As any good mom would tell you, I would do anything for my children and raising them has been the best thing I have ever done.  They have helped me to grow in so many ways.  I feel incredible guilt for even uttering these feelings of despair.  

But that's what I am - desperate.  I am desperate to pry that pillow off of my face.  Desperate to take a breath.  Desperate to be free.  But I have no idea how to get there.  So, for now, I'm just going to focus on getting out of bed.  

Courage #2

This past weekend, we attended our first elementary school dance together as a family.  My daughter, who is in Kindergarten, informed me about this dance weeks before the flyers came home.  "It's going to be a decade dance, Mama!  You have to dress like you're from a decade in history.  I want to dress like the 1920's!  I want to be a flapper girl!"  She's six.  How does she even know about flappers?  But her enthusiasm was contagious and one weekend we found ourselves in every department of Target searching for the perfect accessories.  

My goal was to look authentic while spending as little money as possible - this was a two-hour school dance, after all.  For my daughter, we found two purple sequined skirts on the clearance rack.  We used one for her top, gluing on purple ribbon for straps, and one for the bottom.  We added black tights and dress shoes, a purple boa, some gold beads tied in a knot, and a black feathered headband.  Her purse was a clutch.  She was in heaven!  The boys were easy. My 3-year-old wore a white dress shirt with a built in vest and bow tie, jeans, and a baby blue fedora.  My husband wore a shirt and tie along with a fedora as well.  They were the cutest gangsters I've ever seen.  

And then there was me.  I went back and forth and back and forth and back and forth about what to wear.  Trying on outfits for a costume party is akin to shopping for swimsuits.  I finally decided to simply focus on the accessories.  So I wore a black knit dress with black leggings and flats and jazzed it up with a hot pink feathered fascinator and wildly fun boa.  I was feeling good.  That is, until I got there.

I looked around and I realized that we were the only parents in the room in costume.  

Let me say that again.

WE WERE THE ONLY PARENTS IN THE ROOM IN COSTUME!  

Unbelievable.  

When you're someone who doesn't feel comfortable in their own skin, it's hard to get dressed up and parade yourself in front of a group of people you don't know.  It's very hard.  But when you are the only one dressed up in the entire gymnasium?  It's brutal.  I felt like I was at my own 8th grade dance - all gawky and shy - and wanted to hide under the table.  

But then, yet again, I saw my daughter.  

She was glowing in her purple sequins and had a smile a mile wide.  I wanted to bottle that girl up and drink her down so that I could feel a tiny bit of what she was feeling - free, uninhibited, joy.  She wasn't worried about her costume, or her body, or her lack of anything.  She was just having fun without a care in the world.  

I scanned the gym and realized that not only were the parents in their everyday clothes, they were all sitting on chairs lining the perimeter of the room.  What?  This is an elementary school dance, not a funeral.  Get up, damn it!  Go dance with your kids.

And so I did.  Well, first I asked my daughter if she wanted to me to dance with her and then I did.  And we danced the night away - my fabulous 1920's family and me.  We laughed and jumped and whooped and hollered until the kids were so tired they were begging to go home.  

That, my friends, took some courage.  Not the kind of courage required to don a bathing suit in the middle of winter, but courage nonetheless. 

 And you know what?  It felt fabulous!