This is my mission field

I laughed when I clicked open a reader's email this morning (can you believe I still have readers after my last few posts? Me neither.) to the subject line "just what the world needs, another mommy blogger."

She's right, I laughed to myself. And then I thought a little longer about it and actually, you know what? That's exactly what the world does need.

I work in the news, which means I wade daily through the endless cycle of blood, suffering, horror and abuse that qualifies as attention-grabing. I read all the headlines, and I take note of all the trends cycling out there. I don't have to tell you that it's grim; 5 minutes of channel surfing will make that clear to anyone.

Here's the thing though, despite the tired old adage about how if it bleeds, it leads and the sad reality that horror is endlessly fascinating in a broken world: we need good things to put into our bodies. We need good food, clean water, and, just as desperately but perhaps less apparently, we need good news.

Ultimately, we need the Good News, but we need little 'g' good, too. We need to read stories about how moms are holding their children tight at night and simultaneously cursing the nap-striking phase while marveling at the soft, sweet baby skin still covering their big strong toddler's body.

We need that shot in the arm that reading about another woman's experience with childbirth/schooling/potty training/depression/marriage/illness can give. In our virtual village here on the web we can give - and receive - the kind of support many of us don't have in our physical villages.

Beyond that though, the world needs to see the truth, goodness and beauty of motherhood and family life. And while I'm under no impression that the world reads my blog, nor that I particularly exemplify those big three most days, I do feel a certain civic responsibility to put it out there. (I mean yes, I guess I must also be an attention-seeking over-sharer, but that just makes this particular medium a natural fit for me.)

Maybe your medium is creating meals for friends with new babies or challenging illnesses in their families. Maybe you create beauty by throwing fabulous parties in your warm, artistically and lovingly decorated home (I'm looking at you, Meg). Maybe you are an amazing conversationalist who doesn't mind chewing the fat with the lady behind you in line at Target, or, (horrors) maybe you actually seek out strangers with whom to converse pleasantly.

Here is my point (what a relief); we all have something beautiful, life-giving and necessary to contribute to the world. It might seem little or insignificant to you, or even redundant. But beauty is redundant. It's the breathtaking over-and-over again of the sunset that keeps us looking up each night, marveling over the colors and the clouds. And let's be honest, pretty much all newborns arrive sporting the same red 'n wrinkled look, and yet a glimpse of the innocence in their squinty eyes and the tiny, mewling cries coming out of their mouths before the epidural fully wears off are enough to bring a grown man to tears.

So what I'm saying is, if you feel like you have something to say, you'd better speak up, because this world could surely use another voice proclaiming something Good. God knows there's plenty of bad news coming from every direction. And there's no such thing as too much beauty.

Little Luxuries

I am just swooning over my sweet babies tonight, each of whom is sick with a rather mediocre cold, (thankfully Dave and I are the hardest hit) and all in need of extra cuddles. It's hard to extract yourself from the tangled embrace of a sick three year old whispering sweet nothings in your ear, even if his entire bed does stink faintly of urine and peanut butter. This boy is destined for great things.

At any rate, they're finally abed, and I can finally bang out a blog for the first time in days.

The Wellness Project will hit day 30 on Wednesday, but thanks to some dead Presidents and a loving husband, I was able to go out with a big bang a few days early. Enter the dragon:

Blurry iphone selfie in the mini van marking my triumphant return to blonde.
Never again, chestnut. Never again.

Three uninterrupted hours in an honest-to-goodness salon was pretty blissful, though I did commit the epic faux pas of forgetting mine own reading material. Listen, I enjoy the occasional trashy magazine as much as the next red-blooded American girl, but after the third back issue of People life starts to look a little … bleak. Still, I'm now up to date on all 3 successfully-married couples from the Bach/ette franchise. (Make that 4 now that Sean and Catherine are lawfully wedded.)

While I was sitting back, choking on the bleach fumes and waiting for my color to process (your what to what, honey? asked a concerned Dave back on the home front, shushing a starving and angry breastfeeder) it dawned on me that all this self-care and pampering had really awakened a part of my identity that I had been denying, or perhaps was simply unaware of: I'm a bit of a girly girl.

I guess I sort of recognized that any woman who gets semi-regular pedicures and enjoys interior decorating was fairly feminine, but I've kind of downplayed this part of my persona since becoming wife + mother, which is sad. I guess, subconsciously, I was waiting until I was looking/feeling better to go ahead and own that part of me that likes costly shampoos and wearing an apron to cook dinner and putting on mascara to go to Costco…but how sad is that? Why would I squelch this part of my nature, simply because I was unhappy with how I might look in this phase of life?

I think a big part of it was fear, and the hope that if I didn't make myself vulnerable by admitting I cared about looking or feeling pretty, then I wouldn't be crushed when someone (I don't know who. The world, my mirror, a stranger's glance in Target?) disagreed with me.

So that makes perfect sense, right? Don't want to be called out for being ugly or frumpy or past one's prime, so dress in tattered yoga pants and forgo makeup. Um…

Anyway, sometime during this whole project my little sister pointed out that there was never going to be a time where I would be perfectly happy with my appearance, so to stop waiting for that time and to just put on some mascara. Every day. Her point wasn't that I looked bad, but that while agonizing over how different I might look from high school or college Jenny, I was, in a very real sense, wasting the pretty.

I don't want to wake up and be 45 years old and sporting an androgynous haircut and a mock turtle neck because I gave up on life, you know? I want to gracefully embrace my changing (but not destroyed) femininity as the years pile up.

Not to get too deep here over beauty products and 'me time', but if this past month has taught me anything, it's that when I take some time each day to value and care for myself, I have much more to give to my family. At the end of the day it doesn't matter whether I put any makeup on or showered or brushed my teeth…but if in forgoing any of those things I was less patient, less kind, and less loving toward my family, then actually, it matters quite a bit.

So here we are, almost 30 days in, and I think the thing's been a smashing success. In fact, I think I'll keep it up, this whole business of wellness.

Starting with my little post-bedtime wars cocktail hour. May I present my immunity-boosting and milk-producing combo? A little Guiness plus a little spinach, though not necessarily in the same glass.

Mmmm, vitamins...

Cheers, mamas.

Thirsty Thursday

Honestly I think I've nursed this baby 9 times today, and we're not even to 10 pm yet. Anybody picking up what I'm putting down? I have a love/hate relationship with breastfeeding fo sho, and while I'm very thankful to be able to do it, I'm not always in love with the amount of 'hands on' time involved, so to speak. Touched.out. Amiright?

Anyway, I also managed to squeeze in 30 lunges and I plucked my eyebrows before calling it a night. Yesterday's self-care items included 3 miles on the elliptical and some hastily painted nails in an Essie shade I adore, given to me by my sweet little sister-in-law. I've found that higher quality (read: more than $5 per bottle) polish applies smoother, lasts longer, and takes fewer coats to look good, so technically it's cheaper in the long run. Right? Right?

Don't tell me if I'm wrong. All future trips to Target depend upon it.

Hunkering down for the night with my ravenous baby, a few episodes of House Hunters cued up on Amazon prime, and the snow dumping steadily outside our windows. Hope your dreams are pleasantest.

p.s. This is motivating me to continue producing baby fuel:

"You’ve probably heard the delicious fact that breastfeeding uses up the fat stores you laid down in pregnancy. The greatest weight loss is seen in the three to six month period. You’ve just hit the start of this uber fat-burning period."

Hell to the yes. 6 more weeks till game time.

Finding my momself

This morning found me bright and early in a snowy parking lot filled with other minivans and SUVs, extracting a wriggling and highly enthusiastic toddler from his carseat to enter the dragon: preschool.

I don't know if you're supposed to cry or something at such a moment (I'm pretty sure you are) but I didn't. Honestly I kind of peeled out of the parking lot after handing off Mr. not-so-much-as-a-backward-glance to his sweet teacher, but that perhaps had more to do with the ice-slicked road than with my untempered enthusiasm. But only just.

I want to say it was a leisurely morning of coffee-sipping and paper reading, but I basically looked down at my phone and realized it wast already time to go pick him up. But it was still a nice break to be back to a 1:2 ratio, if only temporarily. And I think John Paul's vocabulary increased by 300% in the 3 hours while Joey wasn't speaking over him/shout-translating his needs. Snuggly one-on-one time with the middle child: priceless.

When I ventured back at pickup time the tears didn't start flowing exactly, but a thin layer of mist may have sprung to my eyes when Joey spotted me standing in the parent reception area and busted down the door and flung himself around my knees, grinning a mile wide, his teacher in hot pursuit. It turns out you have to wait to be dismissed, buddy, but Mommy is forever grateful for that rare and oh so genuine display of public affection.

We went out to our favorite brunch spot to mark the occasion afterwards, since his first day of school was essentially a random Tuesday in January, and party we did: gluten free french toast with caramel sauce for the little man and a butterless biscuit and black chicory coffee for me. (Lucille's, for any of you lucky local readers. The absolute pinnacle of Denver breakfast dining. We frequent the Littleton location perhaps a tad too frequently.)

Between sips of coffee and relaxing conversation with my sweet visiting sister-in-law, I made two or twenty trips to the bathroom to wipe/wash/change a variety of small people's personal effects, and on one of those trips I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the full length and the very first thing that popped into my head was that I look good for having three little kids.  

The realization stopped me in my tracks. And I don't mean the realization that I do, in fact, look pretty good. But the realization that I recognized it and acknowledged it, not in some forced self-affirming exercise, but organically and automatically, even. Like, it was my first response.

That tells me something. This whole Wellness Project business? It's changing me. Retraining my damaged brain that for years has been sending erroneous messages of not good enough and never going to be and replacing them with accurate insights like pretty good, all things considered and objectively beautiful and, perhaps my favorite, honestly trying.

I have spent so many years speaking words of death and destruction and discouragement to myself without consciously realizing it, but it had become the silent soundtrack to my inner space. But now that I'm doing concrete, tangible things to refute those faulty claims of failure and shortcoming, my brain is startled awake, unable to continue playing the same tired tracks. I have to find a new soundtrack. And yes, for the record, it's awkward as hell to say nice things about yourself, even if it's only in your head. But that doesn't mean they shouldn't be said.

So today, my one thing? It was recognizing that the broken soundtrack isn't playing anything worth listening to, any more, and pushing through the awkwardness of the new sounds of truth ringing in my brain.

A little over the top today, admittedly, but I'm blaming it on preschool.

It's the freakin weekend

I fell down on the job a bit yesterday in the self care and posting arena, but suffice it to say that applying a full face of primer + bb cream and a swipe of bronzer was the best I could do. And it was something. We're having some minor issues around the old homestead that aaaaalmost led me down the path of '7 Quick Takes: Reasons renting trumps owning,' but, somewhere between the first and second plumber's visits and my stark realization that making a summit attempt on nighttime potty training when the washer is out, is a terrible plan, I got sidetracked. By urine.

A brief summary: we are renting, and yes we're throwing away all kinds of money every month and yes that's super annoying but it's the same amount of money every month, regardless of whether, hypothetically, your garbage disposal, master shower, washing machine, built-in vacuum system and dishwasher all stop working at the same time. Hypothetically speaking. So, so sorry, landlords.

This morning was rough circa 4 am on, but once I heaved my angry body out of bed at 7 something to the tune of Joey thundering back and forth across the hardwoods screaming "I just need to be free!!!" (why why why) I made an executive decision, ran it by my commander in chief, and sprinted for the nearest exit for some alone time. At Great Clips.

I have ridiculously flat, straight hair that is super easy to cut (and more importantly, hard to screw up) so color me white trash, but my stylist is generally whomever is available for the reasonable tune of $16. I then proceeded to buy some Paul Mitchell shampoo and conditioner before trotting off to everyone's favorite couture boutique, Elderly Army, where I bought some oversized post-preggo bump-hiding tops. And a great pencil skirt.

Ah, the glamorous minivan selfie.

All in all, a moderately pricy morning, but well worth the investment in that I can finally retire my last maternity top until…2016. Or so.

I have to say, the most obvious effect of the Wellness Project thus far has been the quieting of inner critic. And actually, my outer critic. She isn't silent, but she has certainly piped down, and that's been really freeing.

The other day I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the full length mirrored panels of our bedroom closet (how's that for sadistic?) and the thought immediately sprang to mind: I look like I had a baby recently. And what followed wasn't a wave of disgust or even frustration but rather, a very reasonable Yep, I had a baby recently.

I was texting with a friend who is newly pregnant with number 2 (yay!) and lamenting the sad fact that in our culture, pregnancy is only acceptable for 9 months. Why, when such a profound bodily experience has transpired, is it not okay to look like something huge and important and massively disruptive to the norm (see what I did there?) has occurred? It's fine to be big and cute and round and even huge by the end, but it's suddenly shocking to be stretched out and recovering even one month after the event. To other people, maybe, but more to the point, it's shocking to ourselves.

Every one of my girlfriends, almost without fail, have at one time or another been self-critical in my presence of their beautiful, hardworking and yes, altered postpartum bodies. And I'm sorry for not having been more firm with them in my reassurances that they looked beautiful, and that recovery takes more than a handful of weeks and a stretchy pair of yoga pants. I've always cringed at the expression "9 months on, 9 months off," but I'm beginning to see the truth in it. And maybe it's 12 months. Or maybe 15. Maybe after every baby your body changes a little more, is altered uniquely by the new and unrepeatable person who has been nurtured and grown within it.

God, make me more merciful toward myself, and toward other women whose appearances I've judged or been tempted to judge.

Also, isn't there just something about a new haircut? Even if it was obtained in a strip mall.

Hope you mamas are kicking back and don't forget to head over to Bonnie's to vote. If you want.

The Wellness Project

(alternately titled, learning to wash mah hair.)

I'm not overly familiar with the style of writing by which you win friends and influence people with your gentle voice, sweet spirit, and earnest vision for a brighter future, so bear with me if this comes off as…odd. But I shall press on because I think this is something important and worthy of putting pen to (virtual) paper over. And I think I can channel Kelle Hampton for a hot second while I try to cast some vision up in here. Here goes nothing.

This morning, as with so many other mornings, found me pawing through my paltry, spandex-y wardrobe searching vainly for something 'fresh' or 'exciting' or even 'properly fitted to my actual body on this date on the calendar,' but to no avail. My husband caught me on my second sartorial effort of the morning and smiled a little smile as I ripped yet another ill-fitted maternity/nursing/stretched out bag lady top over my head and flung it down in frustration.

"My body is a disaster."

His head snapped up.

"No! Honey, don't say that…your body is a work of love."

(Can you believe this guy is real? Me neither. Lucky, lucky me.)

He says stuff like this not infrequently, but for some reason it hit me hard and fresh today, straight between the eyes.

My body is a work of love.

I know he was primarily referring to the beating I've taken via baby making, and reassuring me that to give life is to become increasingly more beautiful. But it also occurred to me that as much as my body, in its current form, is a work of my having loved and loved greatly…I am also created in capital-L Love, by God.

I don't know how many of you mamas can relate to this, but I don't actually live in this truth. I tell it to my children, and I desperately hope they internalize it and believe it, but I've come to realize that I don't act as if I believe it about myself: I am a work of His love.

I constantly evaluate my physical appearance, critically assessing and sizing up and ultimately disapproving of every flaw, every shortcoming, every imperfection. Meanwhile, I speak words of affirmation and encouragement to my girlfriends:

"Don't even think about losing the weight right not, just focus on healing and growing that baby." 

"You are so beautiful."

"You look amazing."

"You're such a strong mother."

All things I routinely (and honestly) say to my friends. But never to myself. Not only because I'd feel weird doing it, but because I don't believe any of it, not about me, not right now. And maybe not ever.

The truth is, motherhood has made me more comfortable with my body than I'd previously thought possible, after a childhood of chubbiness and an adolescence and young adulthood marked by disordered eating. But I've still got some work to do.

That's where this idea of the Wellness Project comes in. You see, I do pretty well at self care in the emotional realm. When I need a hot bath, an episode of House Hunters over a margarita, or a couple hours out of the house with one of my sisters, I go for it. I'm doing passably well spiritually speaking, too. A rosary here and a few minutes of Scripture reading there, most days. But I seem to have really fallen down in the arena of physically caring for myself. Not just working out (though as the 5th week of Evie's exterior life comes upon us, I can jump back on that train aaaaany day now), but putting myself together in the morning. Putting on mascara. Pouring a huge glass of water and going out to the front porch to quietly sip in peace for 5 minutes before the boys get up from their naps in the afternoon.

Little things. Small steps. Bit by bit, I'm going to do better. Starting today, and for the next 30 days (how edgy to start a self-help project in mid-January, amiright?) I'm going to do something good for myself on a physical level. Some days it might be exercise related, other days it might be beauty-based. And don't worry, I'll probably post a weekly re-cap, I won't subject you to daily updates on whether I got my left handed nails all painted or not. Baited breath, I'm sure.

Do you want to come with me?

Today was day one. And I bought myself new jeans. In the size I am right now. Not the size I hope to be a month from now, but the size I can actually fit into today. Because wearing maternity jeans when you're not pregnant sucks. And because … Walmart. I'm not proud, but at least there's no elastic around my waist. Plus, did you know Jordache was still a thing?

Yikes.

We'll see what tomorrow holds. In the meantime, here are some posts from around the web that got this pot of coffee percolating before this morning's 'aha' moment. Maybe they'll get you thinking about ways you can take better care of you, too.

Mary's tips for feeling instantly better. Love her, and love her cute new baby boy.

Modern Mrs. Darcy's insights on process-oriented goals.

Ashley's commitment to be brave this year.

Jessi's observations on why moms don't take care of themselves.

And basically Jen's, Hallie's and Grace's entire blogs. For obvious reasons.