I try not to look in the mirror often. As little as possible in fact. At this point in my life, with three small children, the sad truth is that I am pretty sure I have, at one time or another, gone days without actually looking myself in the mirror. I know. Bad. Brushing my teeth? Yes. Every day. Without fail. But I close my eyes while I brush. No joke. That or run out to see which kid is hitting who or breaking what while I try to reach my farthest back teeth and order children around all at the same time through a bubbly toothpaste filled mouth before having to run back to the sink to spit. I know. Bad.
The truth is I can’t stand to look in the mirror, and I don’t relate to the image it portrays either. That women in there, she isn’t me. She ate me up or something and I’m stuck inside her belly rolls and chin fat and cankles. She has smothered me really. Or at least that’s what I tell myself when I find one excuse or another to stay on the couch or sew silly dolls instead of go to the gym or take my husky Yukon on a walk. My legs, my real legs used to do amazing things. In fact they were always one of my best qualities.
At 6 feet tall my legs were always long and lean and toned with chiseled calf muscles that carried me from high school and college sports through my final athletic feat, a marathon. 26.2 miles. The proudest day of my life. One I would never have been able to achieve without those beautiful calves. And without my mom’s well-meaning incredulity when I told her I wanted to run one. I’ve never been much of a finisher, so her doubt was well founded, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let someone tell me I can’t do something. And so I did. And my mother was my greatest cheerleader and ally through the training process. She’s good like that.
But that’s when this fat lazy old lady with wrinkles and lumps and blotches started to swallow me up. She was sneaky that one, moving in little by little. She kept telling me I deserved to let my body rest and recover just a little bit longer after that marathon. After all, I had worked hard and deserved a little rest, didn’t I? Just a little longer?
That was 9 years ago. Between then and now I got married, moved across the county to California, had three kids cut straight out of my belly, moved again to Texas where it’s just too damned hot most of the time to exercise, took up sewing, and that was that. Now those beautiful calves are lumpy cankles. The knees are surrounded by layers of soft stuff. What is that soft stuff? My legs have never had soft stuff before!?! The scar on my belly is one thing I never feel self-conscious about. Mostly because I can’t see down there over my baby belly. Nope, not pregnant again, just never stopped looking like it. Maybe I just want to trick my body into having that healthy baby glow too?? It doesn’t work, FYI.
I think I'll go sew a doll...
Monday, March 25, 2013
Friday, March 15, 2013
Guarded
He is out there. Someone who really loved me back then. And who has been kind enough not to say that he loves me now that we have reconnected. He's not saying it because it is complicated, and the last thing he wants to do is make things more complicated. That is how he chooses to show his love.
But his voice. Oh his voice is just the same as it was 15 years ago. Strong and smooth, and warm. It makes me want to climb through the phone and into his deep blue eyes. Oceans of life in there. The blue eyes over here are the steely sort. Icy. There may be depth somewhere behind them, but you'd have to break through impenetrable walls to get there. Not that I haven't tried. He only talks to me or touches me when he knows its make or break. When he knows I'm about to walk out the door to freedom or to poison myself in my garage with the car running.
But on the other end of the line, there is no shortage of words and warmth and listening. And in the mornings I am full of hope that someday I will be able to have that in my life. Have him back in my life. But by the afternoon I begin to doubt I ever will. I know this every morning, and you'd think I'd shut down that shimmer of hope to avoid the crash later on, but I won't do it. That glimmer of hope is more than I've had in a long time.
But his voice. Oh his voice is just the same as it was 15 years ago. Strong and smooth, and warm. It makes me want to climb through the phone and into his deep blue eyes. Oceans of life in there. The blue eyes over here are the steely sort. Icy. There may be depth somewhere behind them, but you'd have to break through impenetrable walls to get there. Not that I haven't tried. He only talks to me or touches me when he knows its make or break. When he knows I'm about to walk out the door to freedom or to poison myself in my garage with the car running.
But on the other end of the line, there is no shortage of words and warmth and listening. And in the mornings I am full of hope that someday I will be able to have that in my life. Have him back in my life. But by the afternoon I begin to doubt I ever will. I know this every morning, and you'd think I'd shut down that shimmer of hope to avoid the crash later on, but I won't do it. That glimmer of hope is more than I've had in a long time.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Remember When
Remember when we would sit on your floor, talking, listening to music, just being together. Sometimes I had a ten page letter I had written for you, decorated with brightly colored doodles and fancy letters, pouring my heart out about this or that, like a child who has just discovered the rainbow. And someone who doesn’t mind hearing her talk.
I never told you I was coming. I would just show up at your door in an odd, awkward way, blurring the lines between poor tact and love. But you always let me in. Always smiled. Made room for me in your life, in your home, on your floor. You offered me food which I always declined, because I never ate in those days. You didn’t mind that either. Come as you are. You are not judged here.
Sometimes you would pick up your guitar and strum a few chords as we moved closer and closer together. And then eyes would lock. Maybe an hour later, maybe more. It just depended. It didn’t matter. But once they met and held each other’s gaze there was something magnetic that would spark. We got a little quieter. And then a little closer. And when you touched me, my skin tingled, and sparked in a way it has never done since. I can still feel your warm hand just below the hem of my shirt. Not a greedy hand, not a hand that was working to get what it wanted. Just the hand of someone who saw all of me, and never made me feel bad about being myself. A hand and a body that spread love and acceptance across my skin like a salve that smoothed the world over.
When we made love I was awkward and inexperienced. I only knew the kind of sex that was unpredictable and asked too much of me, but that wasn’t you. You were strong and soft, and careful, and free. And in the end, you weren’t done with me when it was all over. I wasn’t a used piece of trash that had been crumpled and now needed tossing. You were still you, and I was still me. Even after we made love, you still looked at me with kindness. Not a victor, but a friend. A lover as lovers are intended to be. A partner and an equal.
I never told you I was coming. I would just show up at your door in an odd, awkward way, blurring the lines between poor tact and love. But you always let me in. Always smiled. Made room for me in your life, in your home, on your floor. You offered me food which I always declined, because I never ate in those days. You didn’t mind that either. Come as you are. You are not judged here.
Sometimes you would pick up your guitar and strum a few chords as we moved closer and closer together. And then eyes would lock. Maybe an hour later, maybe more. It just depended. It didn’t matter. But once they met and held each other’s gaze there was something magnetic that would spark. We got a little quieter. And then a little closer. And when you touched me, my skin tingled, and sparked in a way it has never done since. I can still feel your warm hand just below the hem of my shirt. Not a greedy hand, not a hand that was working to get what it wanted. Just the hand of someone who saw all of me, and never made me feel bad about being myself. A hand and a body that spread love and acceptance across my skin like a salve that smoothed the world over.
When we made love I was awkward and inexperienced. I only knew the kind of sex that was unpredictable and asked too much of me, but that wasn’t you. You were strong and soft, and careful, and free. And in the end, you weren’t done with me when it was all over. I wasn’t a used piece of trash that had been crumpled and now needed tossing. You were still you, and I was still me. Even after we made love, you still looked at me with kindness. Not a victor, but a friend. A lover as lovers are intended to be. A partner and an equal.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Cankles is an Awful Word (Repost)
This was from another blog of mine from a few years back:
I try not to look in the mirror often. As little as possible in fact. At this point in my life, with three small children, the sad truth is that I am pretty sure I have, at one time or another, gone days without actually looking myself in the mirror. I know. Bad. Brushing my teeth? Yes. Every day. Without fail. But I close my eyes while I brush. No joke. That or run out to see which kid is hitting who or breaking what while I try to reach my farthest back teeth and order children around all at the same time through a bubbly toothpaste filled mouth before having to run back to the sink to spit. I know. Bad.
The truth is I can’t stand to look in the mirror, and I don’t relate to the image it portrays either. That women in there, she isn’t me. She ate me up or something and I’m stuck inside her belly rolls and chin fat and cankles. She has smothered me really. Or at least that’s what I tell myself when I find one excuse or another to stay on the couch or sew silly dolls instead of go to the gym or take my husky Yukon on a walk. My legs, my real legs used to do amazing things. In fact they were always one of my best qualities.
At 6 feet tall my legs were always long and lean and toned with chiseled calf muscles that carried me from high school and college sports through my final athletic feat, a marathon. 26.2 miles. The proudest day of my life. One I would never have been able to achieve without those beautiful calves. And without my mom’s well-meaning incredulity when I told her I wanted to run one. I’ve never been much of a finisher, so her doubt was well founded, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let someone tell me I can’t do something. And so I did. And my mother was my greatest cheerleader and ally through the training process. She’s good like that.
But that’s when this fat lazy old lady with wrinkles and lumps and blotches started to swallow me up. She was sneaky that one, moving in little by little. She kept telling me I deserved to let my body rest and recover just a little bit longer after that marathon. After all, I had worked hard and deserved a little rest, didn’t I? Just a little longer?
That was 9 years ago. Between then and now I got married, moved across the county to California, had three kids cut straight out of my belly, moved again to Texas where it’s just too damned hot most of the time to exercise, took up sewing, and that was that. Now those beautiful calves are lumpy cankles. The knees are surrounded by layers of soft stuff. What is that soft stuff? My legs have never had soft stuff before!?! The scar on my belly is one thing I never feel self-conscious about. Mostly because I can’t see down there over my baby belly. Nope, not pregnant again, just never stopped looking like it. Maybe I just want to trick my body into having that healthy baby glow too?? It doesn’t work, FYI.
I think I'll go sew a doll...
I try not to look in the mirror often. As little as possible in fact. At this point in my life, with three small children, the sad truth is that I am pretty sure I have, at one time or another, gone days without actually looking myself in the mirror. I know. Bad. Brushing my teeth? Yes. Every day. Without fail. But I close my eyes while I brush. No joke. That or run out to see which kid is hitting who or breaking what while I try to reach my farthest back teeth and order children around all at the same time through a bubbly toothpaste filled mouth before having to run back to the sink to spit. I know. Bad.
The truth is I can’t stand to look in the mirror, and I don’t relate to the image it portrays either. That women in there, she isn’t me. She ate me up or something and I’m stuck inside her belly rolls and chin fat and cankles. She has smothered me really. Or at least that’s what I tell myself when I find one excuse or another to stay on the couch or sew silly dolls instead of go to the gym or take my husky Yukon on a walk. My legs, my real legs used to do amazing things. In fact they were always one of my best qualities.
At 6 feet tall my legs were always long and lean and toned with chiseled calf muscles that carried me from high school and college sports through my final athletic feat, a marathon. 26.2 miles. The proudest day of my life. One I would never have been able to achieve without those beautiful calves. And without my mom’s well-meaning incredulity when I told her I wanted to run one. I’ve never been much of a finisher, so her doubt was well founded, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let someone tell me I can’t do something. And so I did. And my mother was my greatest cheerleader and ally through the training process. She’s good like that.
But that’s when this fat lazy old lady with wrinkles and lumps and blotches started to swallow me up. She was sneaky that one, moving in little by little. She kept telling me I deserved to let my body rest and recover just a little bit longer after that marathon. After all, I had worked hard and deserved a little rest, didn’t I? Just a little longer?
That was 9 years ago. Between then and now I got married, moved across the county to California, had three kids cut straight out of my belly, moved again to Texas where it’s just too damned hot most of the time to exercise, took up sewing, and that was that. Now those beautiful calves are lumpy cankles. The knees are surrounded by layers of soft stuff. What is that soft stuff? My legs have never had soft stuff before!?! The scar on my belly is one thing I never feel self-conscious about. Mostly because I can’t see down there over my baby belly. Nope, not pregnant again, just never stopped looking like it. Maybe I just want to trick my body into having that healthy baby glow too?? It doesn’t work, FYI.
I think I'll go sew a doll...
Crying
I never wanted my children to see me cry. To say things like "Mama gets sad sometimes." To grow up telling a story of a mother who loved them, but who was somehow broken inside. In my mind I was always going to be stronger than that. Better than that. Happier. Yet here I am, in the dark, and she is in the doorway. There are pills in the kitchen cabinet that my husband reminds me every night to take.
"So that she doesn't go crazy," he explains to company when they are here late enough to hear his reminder alarm go off. It plays "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" every night at 10:30.
Sara must have heard me from upstairs when she crept from her bed into the media room where her daddy was deeply engrossed in his video game. She heard me and, instead of getting his attention, she turned around, tiptoed down each creaking stair, stood in the doorway for a moment, choking back a matching sob. She almost let it out before deciding that she needed to be strong for mommy. She put on her big girl britches and climbed in bed behind me. she stroked my hair like any good mama does. Gently pulled my bangs free of my soggy cheeks like a pro. Rubbing my back she softly asked, in her three year old, oh so adult voice "Why you cwyin mama? What's wong?"
I explain to her that its nothing to worry about, but the tears just won't stop. Normally at this time of night I would walk her back to her room, tuck her in while she kicked and screamed, and wait until she would tire herself out and fall back asleep. But tonight I reached over and pulled her close to me. Nestling her head into the crook of my arm and snuggling my face into her soft, sweet smelling hair. And we fell asleep. But not before she reached up and kissed me gently on my forehead. Like any good mama would. Just like a pro.
"So that she doesn't go crazy," he explains to company when they are here late enough to hear his reminder alarm go off. It plays "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" every night at 10:30.
Sara must have heard me from upstairs when she crept from her bed into the media room where her daddy was deeply engrossed in his video game. She heard me and, instead of getting his attention, she turned around, tiptoed down each creaking stair, stood in the doorway for a moment, choking back a matching sob. She almost let it out before deciding that she needed to be strong for mommy. She put on her big girl britches and climbed in bed behind me. she stroked my hair like any good mama does. Gently pulled my bangs free of my soggy cheeks like a pro. Rubbing my back she softly asked, in her three year old, oh so adult voice "Why you cwyin mama? What's wong?"
I explain to her that its nothing to worry about, but the tears just won't stop. Normally at this time of night I would walk her back to her room, tuck her in while she kicked and screamed, and wait until she would tire herself out and fall back asleep. But tonight I reached over and pulled her close to me. Nestling her head into the crook of my arm and snuggling my face into her soft, sweet smelling hair. And we fell asleep. But not before she reached up and kissed me gently on my forehead. Like any good mama would. Just like a pro.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Scattered But Good
I have always envisioned being some sort of widely read blogger with perfect little doses of funny banter about all manner of things in my life. When anything of note happens, it always runs through my brain in one or two ways before it is fully processed: A Facebook Length Blurb, and a full on blog entry written inside my head, start to finish. The problem is, I never sit down and actually start typing. Or if I do, I end up getting distracted first by Facebook, email, other blogs I wish I could imitate, etc. And if I happen to get as far as logging into my blogger account, I suddenly get brain freeze, stare at the screen for a few seconds, and then give up and move on to more mindless tasks.
But today is going to be different - well, it already is. See? I've typed a full paragraph. Now whether I add any valuable content remains to be seen, but you have to start somewhere, right? Yikes! This stuff sounds much cheesier when it gets out of my head and onto my screen. Oh well.
Here's a summary of what's been up in my life, and if I still have some attentions span, energy, and or interest left, I may or may not elaborate. Or I may just go to bed. Or pretend to go to bed and end up playing an hour of Angry Birds or Toy Balls. I digress.
1) Went to an awesome Women's conference last night at today at my "new" church. Loved it. Learned a lot, but not so much from the speakers as what I felt God was speaking to me throughout. I kindof think he just needed to pull me away from my own craziness and life for a few hours to give me time to hear him and sort out the things he wanted me to hear. Very good. Hopefully I will continue to pray about these things and actively pursue them!
2) Sewing: So many projects! I've had a little bit of a problem motivating myself to tackle any projects, much less the longer ones, but I've discovered the beauty of bandana dresses and shorts which require little or no cutting, and often less than a half hour of sewing! Talk about instant gratification! I got myself to tackle one half of a more difficult project tonight, and then got bored, but its a start! Maybe I'll finish tomorrow. Currently I have two dresses to finish, two to start, and about 20 bandanas cut out and ready to go. Most of them are going to the Dominican Republic to an orphanage there. After that I plan on making as many as I can for some of the kids in the area that my cousin is living in Honduras... and after that I have some super cute pixie fabric that is begging to become a quilt, and then I have to finish a purse for a birthday present and convince myself not to keep it, because it is super cute. Then I have to add the batting, binding, and quilting to the quilt top I made out of old flannel burp cloths my kids have used. And then... Oh I won't even keep going. My head is spinning but there are so many more things on my to do list!
3) I'm tired so I'm going to go to bed now. Maybe I'll finish later, maybe I won't.
But today is going to be different - well, it already is. See? I've typed a full paragraph. Now whether I add any valuable content remains to be seen, but you have to start somewhere, right? Yikes! This stuff sounds much cheesier when it gets out of my head and onto my screen. Oh well.
Here's a summary of what's been up in my life, and if I still have some attentions span, energy, and or interest left, I may or may not elaborate. Or I may just go to bed. Or pretend to go to bed and end up playing an hour of Angry Birds or Toy Balls. I digress.
1) Went to an awesome Women's conference last night at today at my "new" church. Loved it. Learned a lot, but not so much from the speakers as what I felt God was speaking to me throughout. I kindof think he just needed to pull me away from my own craziness and life for a few hours to give me time to hear him and sort out the things he wanted me to hear. Very good. Hopefully I will continue to pray about these things and actively pursue them!
2) Sewing: So many projects! I've had a little bit of a problem motivating myself to tackle any projects, much less the longer ones, but I've discovered the beauty of bandana dresses and shorts which require little or no cutting, and often less than a half hour of sewing! Talk about instant gratification! I got myself to tackle one half of a more difficult project tonight, and then got bored, but its a start! Maybe I'll finish tomorrow. Currently I have two dresses to finish, two to start, and about 20 bandanas cut out and ready to go. Most of them are going to the Dominican Republic to an orphanage there. After that I plan on making as many as I can for some of the kids in the area that my cousin is living in Honduras... and after that I have some super cute pixie fabric that is begging to become a quilt, and then I have to finish a purse for a birthday present and convince myself not to keep it, because it is super cute. Then I have to add the batting, binding, and quilting to the quilt top I made out of old flannel burp cloths my kids have used. And then... Oh I won't even keep going. My head is spinning but there are so many more things on my to do list!
3) I'm tired so I'm going to go to bed now. Maybe I'll finish later, maybe I won't.
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