Marriage is...

Back in October, while living in a small two-bedroom apartment, I laid next to my husband listening to him snore and feeling him twitch. I couldn’t help thinking to myself, “This is marriage?”

Marriage is the ability to despise and adore your spouse simultaneously.

Marriage is knowing when to fight and when to walk away.

Marriage is shedding tears and sharing laughter.

It is comfort.

It is exasperated sigh.

Marriage is tolerating both your spouse’s disgusting and annoying habits.

Marriage is running out of things to say.

It is a comfortable silence.

Marriage is enjoying each other’s company.

Marriage is for better or worse.

Marriage is, at times, a slow burning fire, at other times an icy cold blast.

Marriage is exhausting work.

It is late night trips to the store in order to appease your spouse’s cravings.

It is for rich or for poor, but mostly poor.

Marriage is a marathon not a sprint.

Marriage is vulnerability.

Marriage is knowing you’re not alone. It is companionship.

It is believing in yourself and in your spouse.

Marriage is family.

Marriage is trust.

It is loyalty.

Marriage requires strength and perseverance.

This is what marriage means to me What does it mean to you?

I Inadvertently Took a Hiatus from Writing

             I haven’t looked at my blog in a long while. I didn’t realize just how long of a while it had been until I popped onto my page this morning only to discover that my last real blog posting was from January of LAST YEAR? This hiatus from writing is a stark reminder, not only, of how time flies, but also of how little I have taken care of myself intellectually and emotionally over the past year. 

            Time seems to have gotten away from me. It isn’t that I haven’t thought of writing over the past year. It just seems that every time I sat down to do so, this, that, or the other came up and took priority. I spent the summer traveling, visiting with family, and catching up on some long overdue reading. I spent the fall shuttling girls to and from school; and I have spent the majority of the winter either taking care of a sick child or being sick myself. While the days may seem to drag, the year has obviously flown by. 

            Writing is, and always has been, an intellectual and emotional outlet, just as exercise has always been a physical outlet. Since beginning work in December, I have had little time to write, exercise, or do anything else for that matter. I spend my mornings rushing the girls out the door, my days working, my afternoons helping the girls with homework and my evenings cooking dinner and prepping for the next day. My weekends are spent cleaning the house and tackling the mountainous piles of laundry that have built up over the week. Every night, I fall into bed exhausted mentally, emotionally, and physically. 

            If anything, this hiatus form writing has reminded me, not just, of how much I need it, but also of how much I love it. Reading the blog postings of others often makes me envious of their career choice. Yet, when it comes to writing, I often struggle. I struggle to pick topics, to find focus, to formulate coherent thoughts and words. However, relieving myself of persistent thoughts and emotions through writing, ultimately, makes the struggle worth it. It brings with it a sense of peace and well-being that has, I have come to realize, during this hiatus, been absent.

I'm Weary, Oh, So Weary

            Lately, I have been waking up at 5-5:30 in the morning, unable to go back to sleep but unable to get out of bed at 6:15 when my alarm rings. I lay there, tossing and turning, my mind racing, my body full of anxiety. I dread the morning routine. The stress of getting the girls dressed, fed, and out the door. And despite needing the time alone, I dread the long day without company. My human interaction limited to the school nurse and administrative assistant when I go to pick the girls up at the end of the day. I’m weary, oh, so weary.

            I’m tired of this place, with its sprawl and lack of community. I’m tired of seeing my parents once or twice a year, our interactions being limited to daily phone calls. I’m tired of the lack of local friends and a solid support system. I’m tired of constantly putting out fires and keeping my patience. I’m tired of the constant worry. I’m tired of the grind, the monotony, and the treadmill. I’m simply tired.

            I took a break this weekend. I sat on the couch watching Hallmark movies for most of the day on Sunday. I let my husband handle feeding the children, entertaining the children, and cleaning the disaster area that was my house. By the end of the day I felt refreshed, revived, and able to face Monday. I went into Monday feeling positive, energized, and productive. I had a good long conversation with my mom, I folded laundry, I sorted donations, I picked the girls up from school, engaged them in educational activities, watched as they played outside, made dinner, bathed Lily, prepared lunches, read stories, and fell into bed at 9 in the evening, feeling good about my day.

            This morning, however, after lying in bed for an hour, unable to doze off and unable to get up, I feel sluggish, sad, and anxious. Whether it is because my morning routine is being thrown off because my mom is unavailable to talk, or because I have no desire to take my morning walk in the cold, I am unsure, but I am feeling weary, oh, so weary.

            In his book The Subtle Art of Not Giving A Fuck, Mark Manson argues that motivation comes from doing. Therefore, each day do something and the motivation to do more will follow. Yesterday, I took this advice and did something to begin my day, laundry, and low and behold the rest my day felt less like a chore and more like a choice. Today, I write this blog post in the hopes that the sluggishness, sadness, and anxiety will melt away as I continue on my day, choosing to do something rather than wallow in weariness.

            

F*ck Bedtime

 As I give my girls a five-minute heads up before bedtime, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As I listen to them argue with me concerning turning off their Ipads, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As I confiscate their Ipads, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As they complain about being hungry and needing a snack before heading upstairs, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As they begrudgingly trudge upstairs, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As I wrestle my five year old into her pajamas, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As I argue with my ten year old over brushing her teeth, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As I corner my five year old in order to brush her teeth, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As I tell my ten year old to once again brush her teeth because a 30 second pass over isn’t sufficiently brushed, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As I wait what seems like eons for my five year old to choose 3 damn books, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As I listen to my ten year old whine that she wants to be read to too, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As my five year old interrupts me every two seconds as I am reading to her, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As I listen to the girls argue about whose turn it is to be laid with, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As I explain for the millionth time that they must take turns being laid with, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As I lay listening to both girls ask endless questions, interrupting each other, and arguing about who has the right to speak, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As I shush them both time and time again, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As I tell them to go to sleep, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As I feel my five year old squirming next to me for 15 minutes, all I can think is, “Fuck bedtime.”

As I listen to their breathing soften and slow, all I can think is, “FINALLY bedtime.”

Taking A More Postive Position

            I am not naturally a positive person. Of course, it can be hard to be positive when it is Monday, when I woke up numerous times during the night, and faced nightmarish dreams during short stints of sleep. Continual sleep deprivation doesn’t help me fill my glass, rather, it empties it. Nevertheless, I need to work on being more positive.

            I too often see the worst in people, expect the worst from people, and think the worst will always occur as a result of interacting with people. For example, I experience extreme anxiety driving here in Florida because I don’t trust that anyone is paying attention. Everyday numerous accidents occur leaving me paranoid and unwilling to drive anywhere but to the girls’ school and home again. I even experience anxiety on my morning walks. I distrust anyone I meet along the way, thinking that they want to do me harm in some way, shape or form. My thought process isn’t logical or even sane at times, but then negativity and anxiety are very rarely based in reality.

            I love the Ellen DeGeneres show and though I don’t have time to watch it in full each afternoon due to snack time and homework time, I catch up by watching snippets on the Internet. I love Ellen because she is always so positive. She frequently features ordinary people making small but impactful differences in the world and in their communities. I more often than not tear up while watching her show. I cry because I wish I could walk through life like Ellen and her guests, believing that good will always win, love will always conquer.  Instead, I feel the darkness envelope me.  

            Positive thinking, I know requires mindfulness. For someone like me, who naturally sees the worst in everyone and every situation, it requires hard work and dedication. I am working hard to see the good in others, including myself. And I am working hard to see the good in this world of negative energy and individuals. I am working hard to combat the anxiety, and I am working hard to find the helpers, because as Mr. Rogers always stressed in every tragedy there are helpers, looking for them is the key to being more positive.

Children - A Crash Course in Chaos

           Bills, knick, knacks, pens, pencils, discarded shopping lists and coupons cover my kitchen island. Dishes are piled on the side of my sink, drying. On any given day, my sink is full of dirty dishes. The portrait windowsill in my kitchen contains water bottles, thermoses, and salt and pepper shakers. I enter my dining room only to find the girls’ art work strewn all over the table, as well as the pens they used to create said art. My living room floor contains the Barbie Pop-Up Camper, several dolls and the few accessories to the camper that the girls have managed not to lose. Shoes cover the entryway, as well as bags, and a basket overflowing with magazines. Taking a trip upstairs, I notice numerous Perler beads scattered around the playroom floor, the result of Lu’s upcoming business endeavors. Bins that should be neatly tucked away in the closet are haphazardly strewn around the playroom floor. Entering the girls’ room, I am greeted by last nights reading material on the floor and the looming shadow of the Barbie Dream House, which has several dolls thrown into it, the result of a hasty late night clean up. Looking at my house, no one would ever believe that I am actually a very organized individual.

            Children create chaos. I despise chaos. I like everything to have a place and a label. Having things organized calms the chaotic workings of my mind. A messy house causes me to crawl out of my skin and often insights rage. Chaos creates anxiety. Anxiety causes depression. Depression causes anger. Anger causes me to lose my shit with the girls regarding their inability to pick up as they go, their penchant for creating a mess, playing for 10 minutes then walking away, and their obstinate whining when privileges are revoked for not picking up.

            I have implemented numerous strategies in an attempt to get the girls to clean up. All seem to work temporarily, but none have persisted. The messes keep multiplying, the girls keep resisting. My anger keeps rising.

            It has become so frustrating that I don’t even want to clean my house because I know that the minute the girls arrive home from school clean will turn to dirty and the organization I work so hard to maintain will, within minutes, be completely undone. I constantly straddle the line between not giving a shit and grasping tightly to the notion of how I would like my house to appear.

            So what is the answer to my dilemma? How do I ease the anxiety, depression and anger without being a controlling neat freak? Right now, I just want to throw all the shit out!

            

Body Positivity

I read a lot of articles these days about body positivity. Articles written by models that in the height of their modeling careers were excruciatingly beautiful and possessed out of this world bodies. Many of these models have since gotten out of modeling. They have aged, gained weight, and gained perspective. One such model posted before and after photos on Instagram showing herself during her modeling days, thin and glamorous, and showing herself today, still glamorous but rather plus sized. In her post, she describes how she had always equated happiness with thinness, but has realized over the years that being thin does not buy happiness. She is, in fact, happier now in her plus sized body than she ever was thin. Every time I read these articles, I am hit with a tinge of jealousy.

Today I am heavier than I have ever been and feel more unattractive than I ever have. With age has come the death of my metabolism. Combine my age with depression, anxiety, two kids, little time and little motivation and what has resulted is 15 pounds in extra weight. Stress combined with little sleep has left me with a permanent crease between my eyebrows and ever-darkening circles under my eyes. Though my acne has been under control for the past 6 months or so, due to numerous creams and oral medications, pregnancy left me with pigmentation changes giving the appearance of scarring.

A couple of days ago, while browsing my Timehop, I came upon a picture I had posted from my high school graduation. In it I look fresh, beautiful, hopeful, and confident! Even my wedding photos show me happy, healthy, and full of life. As the years have passed, the light has slowly but surely drained from my eyes. My appearance has become more haggard, and my expressions less joyful. Life has taken its toll on my appearance.  Or maybe I have just ceased to care to the same extent I used to. Whatever the reason, today, I rarely post photos on Facebook of myself because every time I have one taken, or take one myself, I think I look awful and am too embarrassed to share.

I wish I could have the same confidence as the body positive models that I have been reading about. I wish I had the energy to care more. I wish I could accept my stretch marks, cellulite, and rolls. I wish I weren’t so tired, stressed, and depressed about my body. I wish I could focus on the positive, those things I still like, such as my full lips, and blue eyes. I wish I could not only do these things for me, but also for my daughters, whom I preach body positivity to, but struggle to embrace myself.  I wish the light that is buried deep inside me could sneak past the darkness and be reflected each morning in my mirror.