Prejudice

I should be working on a ten page research paper right now, but my brain is swirling with thoughts and emotions that will leak out my eyes if I don't drain them through my fingertips into the keyboard.  Bear with me.

I am prejudice.  I think it takes a lot of courage to admit that.  Of course, everyone is prejudice in their own way.  Even someone who seems perfectly political correct can show a moment of weakness.  Thankfully, when confronting prejudice, walking a mile in someone's shoes can expose the error of one's ways, and I have recently had the opportunity to do so.

As a teenager, I HATED mowing the lawn.  And by hate, I mean loathed with all of the fiery passions of H-E-double toothpicks with a side of manure-coated disdain.  I can remember two occasions when my brother and father were not available for some inconceivable reason (car show probably), and my mother decided I needed to “build character” out in the scorching, dry heat.  If you ever thought your mom didn't love you for taking away your phone, grounding you from the television, or not letting you attend a friend's birthday party so you could visit Aunt Myrtle in a nursing home, you were wrong.  She did those things because she loved you.  But if she made you mow the lawn, there is a pretty good chance that her enduring love was diminishing. So, on those two summer mornings when my teenage sassiness made my mother question giving birth to me, she ordered me outside with some excuse about how I needed to “contribute to the household” and “build character” and yada yada yada.  I stared into her blackening soul, and beneath her look of wisdom was smugness because she knew that as I stomped outside in my capris and flip flops, I was going to be humbled beyond measure.

It never occurred to me that mowing the lawn would be painful until I powered up the machine, and razor blades of grass whipped around my exposed ankles like miniature tornadoes of ninjas.  I sucked up the pain as my uncalloused hands gripped the vibrating handle, pinching my palms with the lever.  I leaned forward and pumped my legs, propelling the mower across the lawn while the deafening sound rattled my ears and dislodged a tooth or two.  The vibrations of the motor weakened the muscles in my arms.  Between getting caught in hidden dips in grass and maneuvering around trees and a swing set without the luxury of backing up, lest I suck that pesky plastic flap underneath the belly of the beast, it felt as though two noodles had replaced my once-useful limbs, making it nearly impossible to heft the devil equipment around my obstacle course of a yard. I swore with every foul word I could muster, “Dagnabbit!  Freakin’ grass!  Stupid mower!  How the heck do people do this every week?!  I swear I will never make my dang kids mow the lawn.  I will love my friggen kids. Sweet mother of Jefferson Davis!  Who put a stinkin’ rock in the grass?!  DAGUMMIT!”

I survived the experience and forgave my father for shirking his sheltering duties and my mother for finding teaching opportunities with heavy machinery not appropriate for a delicate flower like myself.  But it was then that I formed a deep prejudice for men who made women mown the lawn.  Whenever I drove past a house with a married woman pushing that howling monster, I was immediately seized by this undeniable urge to march my self-righteous behind over there and protect that her with a restraining order against her spouse and a good therapist to help her deal with the emotional damage.  Did these men not realize they were crushing the feminine spirit one blade at a time?

Then, I bought a house.

And Paul and I bought a lawn mower.

On a breezy, spring morning, empowered by homeownership and sideways glances from my neighbors, I decided to pull out our shiny mower and tackle our overgrown lawn.  I checked the oil level, poured gasoline into the tank and, with consuming dread, nearly tore my shoulder out of socket pulling that rip cord.  Then, something unexpected happened.  I traipsed across the lawn and looked back at the uniform sheen of the freshly cut greenery and as heavenly choirs rang from the ground felt a shot of obsessive-compulsive adrenaline flooding through my veins.  I wanted more, so I turned the machine around and cut another row, then another.  With each subsequent row, the thrill of mowing increased.  The pain of the occasional stick or rock that shot out at my exposed ankles was completely obscured by this addictive need for progression.  My arms quivered slightly, not from fatigue but anticipation of another yard behind the house that still needed trimmed.  Music blared in my ears, and I belted Train over the purr of my lawnmower.  The vibrations of the engine massaged my spirit, and I could feel my soul connecting with the earth as we became one entity.  What was happening?

When I rounded the willow tree and the miracle machine devoured the last tuft of overgrowth, I let go of the lever.  The mower hummed into silence, leaving me standing in a level kingdom of emerald carpet, grown graciously from my mother earth.  As I turned off my iPod, the soft twitters of birds singing my praise replaced the brassy voice of Adele.  I lovingly placed the mower back in the garden shed and walked up onto my deck to overlook my kingdom.  I stood there for what felt like seconds and hours morphed into a moment of pure bliss until the shouts of my children from inside the house woke me from my euphoria.

Since that day, I have not let my husband mow my lawn, lest he find it as addicting as I do.  I’ve become possessive of our crimson mower and territorial of my grass.  I confessed my feelings to my mother-in-law last week when she came up to babysit, and she shared a confession of her own:  She felt the same way.

I will never again pass judgment on some poor, unassuming man when I see his wife out mowing the law.  It could be that, like me, she is relishing in mowing meditation as she reconnects with herself for a few child-free moments.ned forward and pumped my legs, propelling the mower across the lawn while the deafening sound rattled my ears and dislodged a tooth or two.  The vibrations of the motor weakened the muscles in my arms.  Between getting caught in hidden dips in grass and maneuvering around trees and a swing set without the luxury of backing up, it felt as though two noodles had replaced my once-useful limbs, making it nearly impossible to heft the devil equipment around my obstacle course of a yard. I swore with every foul word I could muster, “Dagnabbit!  Freakin’ grass!  Stupid mower!  How the heck do people do this every week?!  I swear I will never make my dang kids mow the lawn.  I will love my friggen kids. Sweet mother of Jefferson Davis!  Who put a stinkin’ rock in the grass?!  DAGUMMIT!”

I survived the experience and forgave my father for shirking his sheltering duties and my mother for finding teaching opportunities with heavy machinery not appropriate for a delicate flower like myself.  I also formed a deep prejudice for husbands who forced their wives to mow the lawn.  Whenever I drove past a house with a married woman pushing that howling monster, I immediately made an assumption that the man in her life should have a restraining order against him for spousal abuse.  Did they not realize they were crushing the feminine spirit one blade at a time?

Then, I bought a house.

And Paul and I bought a lawn mower.

On a breezy, spring morning, empowered by homeownership and sideways glances from my neighbors, I decided to pull out our shiny mower and tackle our overgrown lawn.  I checked the oil level, poured gasoline into the tank and, with consuming dread, nearly tore my shoulder out of socket pulling that rip cord.  Then, something unexpected happened.  I traipsed across the lawn and looked back at the uniform sheen of the freshly cut greenery and felt a shot of OCD adrenaline flooding through my veins.  I wanted more, so I turned the machine around and cut another row, then another.  With each subsequent row, the thrill of mowing increased.  The pain of the occasional stick or rock that shot out at my exposed ankles was completely obscured by this addictive need for progression.  My arms quivered slightly, not from fatigue but anticipation of another yard behind the house that still needed trimmed.  Music blared in my ears, and I belted Train over the purr of my lawnmower.  The vibrations of the engine massaged my spirit, and I could feel my soul connecting with the earth as we became one entity.  What was happening?

When I rounded the willow tree and the miracle machine devoured the last tuft of overgrowth, I let go of the lever.  The mower hummed into silence, leaving me standing in a level kingdom of emerald carpet, grown graciously from my mother earth.  As I turned off my iPod, the soft twitters of birds singing my praise replaced the brassy voice of Adele.  I lovingly placed the mower back in the garden shed and walked up onto my deck to overlook my kingdom.  I stood there for what felt like seconds and hours morphed into a moment of pure bliss until the shouts of my children from inside the house woke me from my euphoria.

Since that day, I have not let my husband mow my lawn, lest he find it as addicting as I do.  I’ve become possessive of our crimson mower and territorial of my grass.  I confessed my feelings to my mother-in-law last week when she came up to babysit, and she shared a confession of her own:  She felt the same way.

I will never again pass judgment on some poor, unassuming man when I see his wife out mowing the law.  It could be that, like me, she is relishing in mowing meditation as she reconnects with herself for a few child-free moments.

When the sun is out

I hate being hot.  I dread summer with its sticky, sickly heat. Searing seat belts, sweaty scalp, and the general smell of wilted plants just holding out for nightfall are enough to nauseate me. Even then, I also yearn for the season because I feel dead when I’m cold and alive when I’m warm. Sunlight reaches through my skin and warms the blood.  It grasps my chest and pulls at my heart, filling my being with the great desire to create art, laugh incessantly, and kiss babies like I’m the Pope.    

It’s been rainy this week.  Sporadic showers keep my lawn green and muddy.  It also keeps me trapped inside by this invisible barrier of chill.  I consider a jacket just so I can get my restless children out of the house, but when I look out at the sea of grey that fills the sky, I change my mind.  Before children, rainy days were poetic.  Book in hand, the musty smell of yellowing paper mingled with the steam of hot cider.  On an itchy, worn couch beside a bay window, wrapped in an afghan painstakingly weaved one knot at a time, I could read as the pattering sound of rain lulled me into a literary trance.  I could bake warm treats that weren’t good for me or just write about them to save calories.  I could watch The Princess Bride or Pride and Prejudice without guilt.  And I could reasonably justify these languorous activities because they were laced with philosophical thought that would make Socrates weep with pride.

With children, rainy days are different.  The hum of rain is drowned out by the shrill sounds of whining or screaming.  Fighting erupts over each activity.  Coloring becomes broken crayons and broken dreams.  PlayDoh becomes muddy, mixed colors and cries over the last purely pink pot of dough.  Train tracks become train wrecks.  Puppets become projectiles.  I would send the little tornadoes out into the cold, but I know the two minutes of silence will not be worth the proceeding ten minutes of complaining and runny noses.  I resort to the television and choose my sanity over their melted brains.

I think I need a nap.  Wake me up with the sun is out.

Spring

I did not realize the effect our old house had on my life until I returned the last time for some final cleaning.  When I turned onto the street that led to the neighborhood, I felt this hole forming in my stomach and hot saliva pooling in the back of my throat like my body was forcing down something distasteful.  As I pulled up to the gates, I could feel my hands sweating as I gripped the steering wheel.  The car rounded the first corner, then the second, and come to a stop in front of the house. Every atom in my body was humming and telling me to turn back.  It was as if I sat in front of a grizzly haunted house from a horror movie with an overly dramatic name like “The Blackened” instead of a gray-blue townhouse.  My fingers hesitated at the ignition key, still undecided if they wanted to obey my commands to turn off the car.  I forced them, and with a quick turn, the car was silent.

We moved into the townhouse when my son was three weeks old, and trapped within those walls, I faced my twenty-two month battle with severe postpartum depression.  Because the house and depression entered my life at the same time, the walls became stained and scared from the dark experience that took place there, and when I pulled up for last time, it all came flooding back.  I thought I hated that house for lack of closets, the tiny kitchen, or the dysfunctional HOA.  However, the stark contrast I felt between our new home, which is filled with peace, and this old building, tainted by hate, acted as a potent reminder that every strand of carpet, every squeak in the floor, and every window blind carried with it memories of pain.

This week I wrote about my postpartum depression for my creative writing class.  During this process, I reviewed old blog and journal entries so the experience would be fresh in my mind.  This entry particularly stood out because I had forgotten that it was last spring that brought the first buds of hope back into my life.  Now, one year later, I walk through my yard and observe the tiny, green leaves poking out the ground that will soon sprout into daffodils.  I find green and purple mint leaves hiding under dead winter foliage.  I see the moss-covered willow branches budding around the teal tire swing that Annie sways in every afternoon.  I find so much joy in it all and an immense amount of gratitude to be in this place.  I think this time every year I will remember the hell that held me captive and the heavenly freedom I feel now and be grateful that every winter has a spring.

That one time when we bought a house

Yes, you read that right, and if you are friends with me on Facebook, you are not even surprised.  For two and a half years, I have endured living in this little townhouse with no linen or coat closet in a neighborhood reminiscent of Privet Drive, but just before Thanksgiving, we had an unbelievable opportunity to buy our dream home.  It didn't seem to make sense, and we didn't feel ready, but everything was pushing us to take a leap of faith, so we did.  Right off a cliff, it seemed.  Since then, everything has fallen into place to cushion our landing.

This dream home is not a mansion.  Not even close, but it feels like one to us.  It has a yard, garage, garden, swing-set, and beautiful white kitchen.  As an added bonus, it has a coat closet and TWO linen closets.  Yes, you read that right. TWO.  I will finally have a home for everything instead of being forced to line the walls of my bedroom with odd, homeless items.  Talk about a mood setter, you know?

My children will also have the rooms of their dreams.  Annie's room was already painted pink, which is all she has ever dreamed of since she was first introduced to the color.  Sam's room has a lock on the outside of the door, which is all I've ever dreamed of since he discovered how to break child locks off doorknobs.  Everybody wins!  The homeowners of the new house have already vacated the premises and gave us a key so we could make any household repairs we deemed necessary before we moved in.  As the gleaming brass object was placed into my hand, a light emerged from the heavens and heavy gust of wind ripped through my hair like a cheesy scene from a bad romance novel.  Except it was my son playing with the light switch and a neighbor opening the front door to carry out a box.  Still, I could feel the temptation of the key whispering to me that I was a domestic goddess.  By the end of the night, the family was gone, and the very next day I was sticking the key into the lock and listening to the satisfying click of the deadbolt.  I began patching nail holes and sanding drywall like it wasn't my first day at the Home Depot rodeo, all the while with full intentions to use the paint in the basement to touch up my glorious work, leaving the house in pristine condition for move-in day.

Then, tragedy struck.  I realized the leftover paint did not include colors for the children's bedrooms, which happened to be where I did most of the repairs.  My stomach shot up into my throat like impending vomit, but then slithered back down where it hummed angrily.  What should I do?  Leave the walls looking patching and awful?  What kind of domestic goddess would I be if I left my new house in such a state?!  I considered using leftover colors from other rooms, but my little daughter was expecting a pink room, so I swallowed my pride down into my humming stomach, and took an unexpected trip to the hardware store to pilot my first major mission as the master of the new house.

During the mission, I discovered there is the process you go through when painting the walls in a color you don't like. Home Depot has a No Return policy on paint, so if the wrong color is chosen, you just threw $25+ out the window, my friend. When you start painting and you feel that familiar tinge of regret, you tell yourself that the color will look better when it dries or covers more of the wall or when the trim has been painted or with a new light fixture or when the sun is in a different position. The longer you tape, roll, and cut in, the more you realize how much work goes into painting a room and the less you ever want to do it again, so you continue to justify and rationalize like a child being told Santa does not exist. He does, and this paint color will get better with age or artwork on the walls or some white curtains, right?  The rationalizing continues to spiral out of control because wasting 25 dollars worth of paint because you are afraid to admit your mistake seems so much less worse than repainting the entire room.

And at end of all that, you are left sitting in the center of your daughter's room that now resembles Miss Piggy, and your son's supposed-to-be gray striped room that now looks quite purple.

That's where I was on Saturday night, siting alone after all of my painting assistants went home, thinking SWEET MOTHER OF JEFFERSON DAVIS. WHAT. HAVE. I. DONE?

Thankfully, after changing the horrific florescent light bulbs and painting the off-white stripes in Sam's room a bright white, the paint blossomed into what I had imagined.

I sure hope my children love this new house and their new rooms, because this domestic goddess is hanging up her paint brush for a while.

Frozen Halloween Costumes

Annie has been begging to be Elsa literally for the first time in FOREVER.  I tried to talk her out of it by any means necessary because last year every little girl and her dog was Elsa or Anna.  But my little winter baby is persistent to a fault, so I caved.

Because Annie was Elsa, I had Sam be Olaf so they could match.  Sam likes the friendly snowman, and since he's so finicky about clothes, I thought the more simple his costume was, the more likely he was to keep it on.

His outfit includes: a pair of white pants we borrowed from Annie, a white t-shirt we already owned with left-over Tinkerbell pompoms glued to the front, hand-me-down boots, and a hat I bought from the party store.  Total cost: $20.

That total cost of $20 was actually the cost of the hat alone.  I had no idea it was that expensive because I couldn't find a price tag, however, I brought it to the register thinking, How bad could it really be? Ten to twelve bucks?  I was wrong.  So painfully wrong, but I puchased it anyway because there was no way I was making an Olaf hat.

Annie's costume includes: store bought dress from Costco (I searched and searched for one that was not itchy), crown that came with the dress, dress-up shoes from Wal-Mart that I clipped the bows off of and painted with Modge Podge, glitter, and an extra coat of Modge Podge just to seal in the sparkles, a yarn wig that my aunt and I made similarly to the Tinkerbell one from last year, and a little purple eye shadow. Total cost: $30ish dollars.  Way too much much if you ask me.

 But how do you say no to the queen of Arendelle?

On Saturday, we had our annual Halloween photo shoot.  I needed this one to go smoothly because I am using some of these frames for our Christmas card this year.  Samuel did not get that memo and kept walking into the shots of Elsa.  As cute as that little Olaf head was, I needed some very specific shots that didn't involve the wintry sidekick.  I also needed some hugging pictures that mostly ended in Olaf screaming, "No hugs!" while Elsa chased him, giggling wildly.  In the end, I eventually got what I needed for our Christmas card and a few extras to play with.  Annie requested I give her magic like I did last year, so I obliged.

 "Here I stand in the light of day!"

I hope you have another magically Halloween!

Face washing

I have been wanting to write this blog post for a while now.  Actually, I’ve really just wanted to say it out loud.  For over four and a half years, my life had been consumed with thoughts and feelings I could not express because I did not know how or feared they would be misunderstood.  Today I had a moment of clarity while washing my face, and I think I am finally ready to deal with the elephant in the room.

Since having my children I have learned two major things.  I love my children more than I ever could have imagined, and I dislike motherhood more than I ever could have imagined.

There.  I said it.  Judge away.

I love my children.  I love their little feet and soft kisses.  I love tickling them and wiping their faces so I can look into their crystal blue eyes and tell them how precious they are.  I love hearing them speak about their feelings, dreams, and discoveries.  I love watching their little bodies as they learn to crawl, walk, run, jump on one foot, and dance.  I am obsessed with their imaginations, in awe at their bravery, and humbled by their forgiveness when I make mistakes.  I have learned more about divinity raising these little spirits than any scripture I have ever read.

I have also learned a little something about my limits.  To be honest, before motherhood, I hadn’t met many challenges that I couldn’t work through.  Learning came easily.  With much practice, I even became a decent musician.  I loved working and being surrounded by people and praise.  More than anything, I loved feeling in control.  And if you love feeling in control, boy, is motherhood a wake-up call.  Suddenly, I was thrust into a world where my precious control was striped from me and replaced with inconsistency.  Try as I may, I just could not seem to put the puzzle together the way I thought it was suppose to fit.  I could not seem to get my daughter to sleep, I did not know how to comfort my son when he cried endlessly for the first year, and I could not poof them better with they were sick.  Today, I cook healthy food they will not eat and spend all day talking to little persons who do not listen.  I repeat repeat repeat repeat so many things that I feel forced to raise my voice, and those little blue eyes turn on me in shock.  I’ve read parenting blogs and listened to advice from others, and when those methods do not deliver as promised, it all comes back to me, and I wonder why I am such an inadequate human that I can’t get anything right.

I was never that girl who begged to hold babies.  They terrified me, and if someone handed a little drooler to me, it often cried, which sent me into a tailspin of anxiety.  After having two of them, I can honestly say I still don’t care for babies.  I don’t mind them for short bits of time, but there is not enough money in the world to pay me to go back to that stage.  They are too unpredictable for this control freak.

For me, motherhood has never felt natural.  It has felt like this constant urge to run away fighting against this intense love pulling me to stay.  So, for four and a half years, I have been holding my breath like I am watching the climax of a movie, just hoping the beloved hero doesn’t get squashed by the frightening villain.  I always have one ear focused on their bedrooms at night, waiting for crying or coughing or, heaven forbid, productive heaving.  There isn’t ever one minute where I am totally relaxed and at peace.  Fall is my favorite season, but for the past few weeks, the cooling air and shorter days have only reminded me that flu season piggybacks on Autumn, and I have a son that runs from me when he throws up, leaving long vomit trails in my carpet.

Last year, during my difficult battle with postpartum depression, I sort of gave up.  I felt like I was stuck in this miserable cycle of existence where I was inadequate beyond measure and unlovable.  Perhaps my children would have been better off with a mom who loved all the moods of babies like my mother-in-law or had the natural presence to command an army of tots like my mother.  In that moment, is was as if the hand of God reached out and pulled me off the edge of a cliff.  He reminded me that what I was experiencing would be written in my book of life preceded by “and it came to pass.”

After that experience, I re-enrolled in school, completely changed my diet, cleaned more, involved my kids in the everyday workings of the house, finished my book, started a second one, and reached out to others (like my husband) instead of isolating myself.  I felt sunshine reenter my world. . . but not permanently.  Occasionally, I still feel suffocated, inadequate, and completely out of control, but as my children are getting older and more communicative, those feelings definitely come with less frequency.

That brings me back to tonight and washing my face.  Recently, I have decided to start dressing and grooming as if I am going out in public more.  I think as a stay-at-home mom, it can be easy to get into the housework bun and sweats lifestyle, but I have noticed when I spend the time to put myself together in the morning, I feel more put together throughout the day.  Consequently, I have had some adolescent acne reemerge from sleeping in my makeup.  I tried to cover them with more and more make-up, but a few weeks ago, someone suggested I  actually try washing my face instead.  I caved and bought a cleansing brush and made it a part of my nightly routine.  Within three weeks of using it, the acne disappeared, and my face is starting to look more youthful again.

Tonight as I was washing my face, I realized that for a long time I had wounds and imperfections that I tried to cover up, but they just kept getting worse and multiplying.  In the past six months as I have made changes in my life, it felt a lot like washing my face.  It has been difficult to expose the demons I was hiding but also necessary to treat them.  The Lord has said “if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them” (Ether 12:27).  Facing my flaws head on has been incredibly difficult; however, I have faith that by showing my weakness and humbling myself, the Lord can use me to bless my children’s lives.  I will continue to wash my face and take my burdens to my Heavenly Father, because as much I as I dislike motherhood sometimes, I sure do love my kids.

An English Major's Dilemma

Do you know how hard it is to be an English major?!  


Let's just all have a moment of silence for me.
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I don't mean to sound like a first-world whiner, but since the news of my major change (pun intended), the world has begun to treat me differently.  See, for all of you non-English majors, if you accidentally misspell a word or leave out a comma (or my personal favorite, add an extra), your readers will be forgiving because it's not like you are an English major, amiright?  But for us ENGLISH majors, there is this stifling expectation that everything spilling out of our mouths or rolling off our fingertips must be literary gold, laced with sophisticated semicolons and daring dashes.  Heaven forbid my auto correct settings change a word without me noticing.  If I mix up a their/there/they're or a you're/your/yore, I might as well sequester myself for days until the disappointment blows over.
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Can we have another moment of silence?
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Now, I have a confession.  I am not an English aficionado, nor am I a writing wonder or a spelling guru.  Proper punctuation isn't always my thang, and I reserve the right to use it creatively when I want my voice to shine through uninhibited.  Truth be told, I have not even started the course work for the English major because I've been finishing generals.  The basic knowledge of syntax I use daily is pulled from my long term memory bank stretching upwards of 20 years ago when I was picking my nose in grade school.

Kind world, have mercy on me.  Sometimes I use words like 'unctuous' in everyday speech, but more often than not, I forget how many C's are in 'necessary' and fail to proof read before posting something of the Facebook.  Cut me a little slack and be like Elsa.  Let it go.



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