Love thyself.

It's hard to love yourself every day of the week. I know.

It's hard to accept that you're good enough, or present enough, or that you're lovely even if your jeans don't fit anymore. It's a tall order to consider that you're radiant no matter what your hair looks like or whether your sweater has spit-up on it and holes forming at the sleeves.

Growing up, I spent so long ripping pieces of myself apart. I think - I fear, I lament - that I only did this because I'm a girl being raised in the world, amidst warped ideas of beauty and skewed body image, in spite of the solid teaching I was given at home. I invested too much time thinking that my skin was too pale; that my arms were too hairy; that my thighs made me look like a hippopotamus; that I had man-hands and a boy's voice (I don't).

But tearing oneself down is exhausting. The energy that we can expend dreaming up and focusing on different faults or reasons why we're not good enough is just so tiring. It's gratuitous. It needs to stop.

I'm not saying that loving yourself comes easy, or that strong self-confidence is something inherent. It takes work. But more importantly, it takes a consideration that those people in your life who love you are onto something. It takes an intentional effort to hear what you're being told, and take it to heart.

The confidence that I have, which started from this tiny seed at the bottom of my heart and sprouted up and out and all over my body, exists because I've been taught well to love myself. I took the example of the handful of people who raised me up and held my hand and walked alongside me and reminded me time and again that I am wonderful.

I feel blessed in my life that I've had certain people love me so deeply, with such care and such intention that they instilled within me this tiny seed that grew up, up and away. They taught me, over a long string of years, that my pale skin is beautiful. That who gives two shits about your arm hair? That my thighs are beautiful and perfect just as they are. And that my hands are lovely and my voice is just my voice. My girl voice. And they taught me so much more than this - that I am loved in spite of any and every single flaw that I possess.
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When I started this blog some months ago, I did it as a means to reach out to other mothers. Women like me who are experiencing the gamut of emotions, being stretched in every which direction, nearly broken but still hanging on, and who might find themselves feeling isolated or alone.

And a couple months ago, I stripped off all my clothes and stood with my naked baby girl for the 4th Trimester Bodies Project as a way of taking a small step forward - or a big step, really - shouting from the rooftops, in my loudest voice, that we as mothers are strong, we are beautiful, and we are brave. It was the first step in a series of motions I took to liberate myself from my own cage. And to have sloughed off my clothes and those bars feels like the most freeing thing I've ever done.

I want Margot to learn to love herself. And I know that this starts right here. I want to love her all through her days and to lead by example and show her exactly how powerful she is. I want her to have a realistic understanding that beauty is everywhere, that beauty does not revolve around body size or shape, and that she can do whatever she wants to do and be whoever she chooses to be.

I want her to understand that her value is not determined by her beauty, but that regardless of what she looks like, or what changes her body goes through, that she's perfect just as she is.

What do you love about yourself? Are they the same things that I love about you? Do you take selfies on your phone when your kids are napping? I do too.

Onward I march to 33

This morning I got up at the crack of dawn and swam a kilometer's worth of laps, which I normally do, then came home and ate a massive bowl of Alphabits, which I normally don't do – effectively undoing all my hard work. But that was my birthday present to myself, and I'm the boss anyhow, and also it should be said that there may or may not be a DQ blizzard sitting in my freezer waiting for me after Margot goes down for a nap. (There is.)

When I went in to get her up for the day, Margot gave me a spot-on rendition of a wolf's howl, then when I sneezed, she looked at me and said, "Um...gross." So far today we've listened to "Africa" by Toto on full blast, we rode on a carousel, and I kissed that girl on the lips too many times by her standards, and not enough times by mine.

I heard a song on the radio this morning - That Wasn't Me, by Brandi Carlile – it prompted me to ask myself a question she asks herself: "Do I make myself a blessing to everyone I meet?" Well, no; I doubt very much that I do – that's a tall order. It's a lot simpler, I imagine, to be as such to friends, acquaintances or passers by, but it's a far larger fish to fry in the presence of my best girl and my best guy, who spend more than their fair share of time with me, whether they like it or not. But I'm up for the challenge; being allowed to experience a 33rd year on this planet is a blessing, to say the least. And I owe my most sincere gratitude to each of you friends and members of my family, whether your path has crossed mine just ever so briefly, or whether we ran on the same track for years. I'm blessed to know you, and am grateful for your presence in my life no matter how little or big.

At any rate, today is a good day. It's near impossible to be in a bad mood on one's birthday, isn't it?

My heart, as it lives and breathes

All the snot, tears, banging, smearing, throwing, hitting, crying, yelling and screaming that this girl outputs could not tear me away from her for one iota of a second. 

She is my heart with eyes, limbs, and a little runny nose. 

Jealousy and freedom and drinking during the day

This week has felt overwhelmingly like this. 

I'm on the upswing at this point, but I was on my period at the same time that Margot got a cold and thus stopped sleeping - so I wasn't sleeping - and what might have otherwise just been a routine string of crappy daily situations somehow morphed into the perfect storm of me feeling overdramatic, whiny, bitchy, and short-tempered. Lucky for Daryl, though, partway through the week I did actually realize what a turd I was being, and apologized. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm just having a really shitty life." (Overdramatic. I told you. There's an Ebola outbreak and the Israel-Palestine conflict is so horrible it's too great a weight to bear and I'm complaining that my life sucks because there's a toddler chucking little pieces of spaghetti all over the dining room and I don't know what I want to eat for dinner because nothing sounds appetizing. REALLY? REALLY.)

But as I was saying - I'm over the hill and picking up my pieces. I've decided to make a change in my life. I have this one great friend who's said how remarkable she finds it that I possess this ability to make a sweeping permanent change when I decide on some way in which I want to change my life or otherwise strive for any particular goal. I had never realized this about myself whatsoever, but there was something incredibly empowering about having someone point this out to me. And so, here I'm going - I'm taking life by the horns (the horns? The tail? What's the expression again?) and putting an end to my lethargic nature. 

Last night I registered to attend the upcoming Birth Without Fear meet-up in Minneapolis. I realized shortly thereafter that this conference, this opportunity for me to spend a day out of the house sans toddler, will be the first time I've ever done anything of the sort since having Margot. I'm not saying I've never had a sliver of me-time in the last year and a half, but realistically I am saying that I've never done anything more than slip out of the house for a couple hours after she's gone to bed at night, or run out to get my hair cut, or zip out to rob a bank real quick... that sort of thing. I'm always back in time to nurse my girl, feed her a meal, take her to go grab groceries, or whatever's left on the day's agenda - the only times I've ever spent an entire day away from her are when I go to work. It's embarrassing admitting this - but it's also incredibly freeing realizing that next Saturday I'm totally going to be doing cartwheels out of my house while wearing a dress with poofy sleeves. And I'll obviously have lipstick painted all over my face. If you hear shrill, maniacal laughter, don't freak out. It's just me on the loose.

I should have prefaced all that with an explanation as to why I'm always stuck at home with our girl. I think I've written already about how Daryl and I made the decision pre-baby to adjust our work schedules so that we wouldn't have to rely on daycare services in order to juggle careers and child-rearing. We're both incredibly lucky to have jobs that allow us to perform all kinds of scheduling acrobatics so that either he or I ends up being home with Margot on any day of the week. And as it turns out, it's equal parts blessing and curse - because what we never really thought to factor in is the fact that doing that means that never in the course of a week will we ever be home together. Either he's at work, or I am. We don't have weekends. We've got evenings, sure, but Daryl's a social butterfly and I'm a homebody by nature so he inevitably does all kinds of gallivanting around town while I'm happy at home watching tv, playing on vine, and perusing Instagram. It works for us. 

...Except when it doesn't. Except when I every so often get swept away in a wave of jealousy so strong I want to yell and cry and throw in the towel altogether. I'm always vocal about it, mind you - I'm an open book when it comes to my thoughts and feelings and ideas about how I'm feeling - and I should also say that Daryl is the reigning King of encouraging me to do whatever it is I want to do, and to pursue the things that make me happy; the crux of the issue is me. It's me never totally knowing what it is I want, never really feeling like I know just the thing that'll make me feel free and fulfilled and as though I've had a sufficient break from my chaotic and overwhelming days with a teething/busy/cranky/happy/antsy/squirmy toddler. 

So this jealousy picks me up by the scruff of my neck and throws me against a wall - and it always catches me off guard, because by nature I am not a jealous person whatsoever. I don't struggle with insecurity or low self-esteem, and I'm happy and proud that Daryl and I have a relationship wherein we can both feel free to do our own thing at our own pace. But it turns out that there exists a level of social jealousy within me that is fierce and strong in spite of my introversion. I'm sure it has a lot - if not everything - to do with the fact that I don't live in my hometown and I'm not surrounded by family or lifelong friends in a familiar community, the way he is; but nevertheless, I end up being so ridiculously conflicted between wanting to give Daryl everything and wanting to hoard it all for myself. It's again another example of how I end up giving into my role of Mother with far more ease than I ever allow myself to be Self. Because it's just easier not to, even when it's actually so much harder. 

So next Saturday is monumental for me. Not only will I be able to spend the day marveling over the stories and experiences of like-minded women - women who've felt and experienced so much of what I have - but I'll be able to do all the things I can't normally do when I'm on baby duty. Like juggle torches and drink cocktails in the bathtub. 

They'll have bathtub cocktails there, right? 

You are home.

You matter. You are enough. You are a giver and sustainer of life; and you provide exactly what your little ones need of you. You are kind eyes, soft kisses, strong arms, and steady breath.

Remember: to those who matter most, you are home.

On wanting what the heart wants.

A friend of mine just recently made a leap – she left her $100K+ career because it occurred to her on her morning run that, as she said, “the human heart is worth more than that.” I said to her with deep envy that it had just occurred to me that it seems her heart and mine had been holding hands all this time, and I just hadn’t realized it – but that hers had just made this wild and glorious jump off a cliff, while mine is still standing over the precipice peeing its pants.

I’m not saying you or I or anybody needs to quit their job in order to follow their heart – but can you imagine that freedom? I mean, I actually can’t, really. I’m too busy sweating at the thought of all the worries that would crawl into my brain like cockroaches – how would we pay our mortgage? How would we keep food on our shelves and shoes on our feet? When we had Margot we decided to adjust our work schedules in order to forego daycare services, so as it stands I cut my income in half and that makes me antsy enough on any given day. So going cold turkey in order to spread those heart-wings? And MY heart-wings, no less, which I think could rival those of Falcor from the Neverending Story...? Oh no wait… Falcor didn’t have wings. (But if he did.)

I know how easy it is to slip into the almighty role of Mother and accidentally inadvertently lose the equally important concept of Self. I only have one child – so it’s a mystery to me how women with multiple children find the time to follow even little pursuits of happiness – because I know full well how hard it is to even find the freedom to pee with the door closed, let alone unload the dishwasher or do some other such task that I feel obligated to do in order that the household doesn’t inevitably fall apart.

I’m getting off track; and Margot is crying over the baby monitor, which I’m feeling inclined to chuck out the window (the monitor – not the baby). She so graciously allowed me just enough time to eat two massive bowls of Alpha Bits that I bought on a whim today, then she decided her nap was over. Thanks, babe.

Anyway. So I’m trying to imagine what indulging my heart’s desires would look like. Or even what they’d feel like. Have you ever mustered up the guts to shift your life in a totally different direction? I’ve only ever daydreamed about doing it, then accidentally let a slew of discouraging thoughts slip into my head – about how I don’t particularly have anything to offer, about how there’s no discernible reason as to why my writing would affect anybody more so than somebody else’s, or about how I likely just don’t have what it takes to be successful. But WHY do I have the audacity to think those things?! Step one is garnering the confidence to put one foot in front of the other, in the name of reaching toward exactly what it is that the heart wants.

On inspiration

Ashlee Wells Jackson & daughter Nova Emery, 4th Trimester Bodies Project

I think I forgot what being inspired felt like. Or ...no. I think I just forgot that I had a pilot light ablaze in my heart - and this past weekend, my heart nearly burst with such an intensity that I feel like someone took two hands and just shoved me right off a cliff.

Is that dramatic?

I'm one of the lucky few who was able to participate in Ashlee Wells Jackson's 4th Trimester Bodies Project. In the weeks and months leading up to my photo shoot, I felt an incredibly strong pull - like being a part of this movement was somehow already intrinsically a part of who I so desperately want to become, and who I already seem to have morphed into being; but now that I've done it, since having sat in a room with Ashlee Wells Jackson and her colleague Laura Weetzie Wilson and spilled out my story, shed tears, griped, questioned, and marveled, now I just feel like I'm about to explode. Like something within me woke up that I'm confident has been passed out, splayed on the floor for nearly a decade.

I'm fantasizing about doing something that makes a difference - something that feels like it matters - something that'll remind me that I matter. Joining with the women out there, the mothers, who advocate for pregnant and birthing women, and for mothers both new and seasoned. If only I had some sort of direction - I don't know what to do.

I'm 31. Almost but not quite 32. I hate that I feel like I'm wasting my days and my years; that outside of my life as a wife and a mother I'm not doing anything to make anybody's life better or richer, and that my heart feels like a raisin.

Why am I not doing that which makes me feel alive?

Join the army of brave and beautiful women supporting Ashlee & Laura in their efforts to normalize and celebrate motherhood and the changes that our bodies undergo as a result of pregnancy, childbirth and breastfeeding.

Visit them on Facebook, on Twitter, or on Instagram at @4thtribodies.