S'mores Life

You don’t have to be a parent of a verbal child for very long to constantly be prepared for questions you can’t really prepare for. “Why did *insert second grade kid’s name here* tease me?” “Will you the this book to me?” (Which wouldn’t be a hard question to answer if the question didn’t actually mean “Will you read the same 20 pages of the same book that you’ve read to me every night for the past month?”) “What’s for dinner?” (It’s a hard question for some people, ok?!) “What are we doing this morning? This afternoon? Tonight? Right now?” “When we die, do we go back inside a big mama?” “Why is your belly so round and so soft?” “Why did you and daddy get a divorce?” “What did you fight about?” “What if you find a boyfriend and you really love him but we hate him?” (This one is actually pretty simple to answer.  ️) “Did you feel butterflies in your tummy when you loved daddy?” "Why did you marry Daddy?" "Did...

Earlier this week I was writing about how surprised I was that it took me until 34 to learn some things about fatphobia and the media. It took me a little less time to realize that 1) I'm not for everybody and 2) that's ok. I think some people have a hard time when other people, especially women, even more so mothers, own their own complexities. No only do I recognize some of the things about me might look contradictory to others (divorced, tattooed, sometimes drop an F bomb, single mother, working in ministry, going to nursing school, extroverted introvert, curvy girl who works out more than most of her smaller friends and loves bread but hates to bake), I own them. Those complexities, they make me me, they make sense to me, and they are a sign that I am becoming a fully integrated human after years of the world training me not to be. And that's hard for some people. It's hard for so many reasons - most of those reasons the same ones that disintegrated us in the...

I wonder what our parents version of Bump or Facebook due date groups were. I guess just like, mommy and me classes? (Because in the 80s, why would a dad ever stay at home, and a mom ever need to work? Ugh.) I'm still a part of a Facebook group of "May 2008 Brides" - a bunch of us who got married in May 2008 and "met" chatting on The Knot. Half of us are not married anymore, but we still chat regularly. I am not, however, still a part of the Bump/due date groups I was a member of during my pregnancies and children's infant and toddler years. For those of you who may not be a millenial or Gen X women, these groups are pretty much what the names imply. A group of moms all expecting during the same month. Baby gear, breastfeeding, childbirth, sleep (or lack there of), etc. are all discussed, and I know people who have made very good friends this way. Mostly, it's a place for a mom of a six week old to run to at 2am and say "___ is happening, do I n...

I cannot believe it took me until 34 to recognize this. I grew up in the same culture as the rest of you - women's worth lies in their desirability, their desirability lies in their looks, and most specifically, their body. That's the message that was sent. Over and over, repeatedly, sometimes loud and clear and sometimes subtle and more damaging. In the same way you can recognize a partner punching you in the face as abuse, but sometimes one never recognizes gaslighting; we can call bullshit on someone flat out saying in a TV show "She's not pretty because she's not a size __ (insert whatever size fucked with your head most)" but it's not often until years later that we realize the damage of never seeing a plus size character whose story line revolved around anything other than her weight. Growing up, I knew no one on the TV or movie screens looked like me. I knew anyone who wasn't 90s heroin chic thin was portrayed as the fat sidekick, and in any...

A few months ago, I had my first piece published for Scary Mommy. It was about the unexpected joys and loneliness of single parenting. I am a very mature, subdued, internal processor so naturally when I was checking my personal email at work and got the email that it would be published, my jaw dropped, I jumped over paperwork, fake flowers, goldfish and a hula hoop (I'm in children's ministry, guys, don't ask), bolted to the door like it was time for the local fire fighter's visit to our preschool, threw my hands up, tangling one of them in my hair that would've made me such a perfect Texan, and said yelled "SCARY MOMMY IS PUBLISHING SOME OF MY WRITING!" and waited for the applause that never came. Only one of my four coworkers in the office at the time even knew what Scary Mommy was , and the other three tried but pretty sure they thought what I was hoping would be my big break might actually be my big mental breakdown. Jokes on them, I had that break...

 I’m packing up the Christmas stuff today, and I’m struck by the dichotomy of the time pre and post Christmas. Pre-Christmas, my children helped me decorate. I hardly had a second to look at the ornaments before they placed them on the tree (and only briefly again when I rearranged so they weren’t all in two spots. Parents, you get me.) I didn’t notice the ornaments that had been tucked into the corner of the box, unnoticed for the past two Christmases, reminding me of my past life. The ornaments, and the life, I thought I’d hidden, given, or thrown away. The life I want to forget as much as I want to remember. Dichotomy.  Pre-Christmas, we are busy preparing, hustling, cooking, shopping, and searching. For what? For the magic of the season we are so actively creating, and also avoiding? Dichotomy.  And here I am, in the post Christmas aftermath of pine needles and glitter and ornaments I love, and other ornaments I want to drop into the trash as much as ...

Five, almost six years ago, I was exiting church after the service with steam coming from my ears. I was practically dragging a toddler, and carrying an infant in the Moby wrap, questioning if it was done right because a photographer had just told me it was wrapped wrong. Someone at church (I honestly can't remember who, which is good for both of us seeing as I work at this church now) said something to me along the lines of "Cherish every moment. It goes so fast." I had to walk away before I asked for her rose colored glasses and stomped all over them in the church entryway. I was a stay at home mom to two kids two and under, my now ex husband was working 4-6 weeks out of town (when I wasn't freaking out about his state of employment, or lack thereof), my nipples were raw from my little nursling being attached to me every 1.5-2 hours round the clock, my toddler had just tried to bite her friend on a recent playdate, my entire body felt foreign and achey and ...