Happy, happy birthday, Bloggy {three years and counting}

Today my little bloggy that could will be three.  THREE.  When I started this adventure in Internet land, I never once imagined that I would still be pounding the keys three years later. This has been a labor of love.  This blog has taught me things about myself.  Things I would have never discovered if I hadn't taken a chance that day.  There is a lot of talk these days about screen time.  Spending too much time in front of a screen and away from my family.  But in my defense, this blog has made me a better mother, a better wife, and a better person.  I can find lessons in the mistakes I made.  I can take to my laptop and type away a confession, an admission, an apology.  This blog has turned into my therapy, my drug, my happy place, my calm.  I'm so thankful for it every day.
Over the last few months I've been going back over the blog posts from my first and second years.  I cringe at some of my posts from the first year.  I can see the novice, the voice that wasn't quite as steady as it is today.  My second year posts had a stronger voice, a little more sure of itself.  And last year, with a voice strong and loud, I took chances on my writing.  I still wrote with force, I still wrote with honesty, but I let a little bit of my fearfulness go.  I said things that I may have been afraid to say in the past.  I cussed more.  Dropped a few more eff bombs.  I talked about delicate situations, and sometimes I gave away too much information.  I went out on a few limbs, sometimes on tiptoe.
And I survived.  
This blog has survived too.  Survived my thirst for followers and not readers.  Survived my focus on ads and self promotion instead of writing.  Survived trying to present content I thought was wanted in the blogging world.  This blog has survived those three years of finding my place on the Internet.  And trust me it's a small little place I carved out with the help of some really great friends.  But we all know this space has never gone viral, and to be honest it may never.
But this is my place and I'm so happy to be here.  I'm so happy that you are here.  This year is going to be quite different.  I'm working now.  The blog is taking a backseat to other things in life.  Like life itself.  I'm working on other projects.  Projects that I've been thinking about launching for the life of this blog.  Thanks to this blog, I have the confidence to do that now.  I'm a little nervous about the year to come, but I can't stop writing.  I can't stop coming back and letting my heart bleed a little at this keyboard.  Words are my oxygen.  I need them.
Like I've said again and again, I'm so thankful for you.  You, reading this right now.  When this blog was born it had five readers.  One of them was my mother, the other my best friend, and a few others along the way.  That's a big change from what this blog sees these days.  I've made some lasting friendships via this blog.  Friends that I have never met, never hugged, but I know the days that their sons and daughters were born.  I know that their son lost a tooth, and their daughter likes purple glitter polish.  I know how sad they were when their grandpa died.  I've prayed for them, cried for them, laughed with them.  They are real friends, in real time, because despite the absence of a hug, they have touched my heart.
This year I have so much to celebrate.  Three years filled with words and stories and love. Three years of connections and friendships and a shared community.  Three years of finding my voice, finding my way, discovering me.  Three years that confirm this is exactly what I should have been doing all along.  Writing.  Living.  Loving.  Laughing.  Three years, and counting. Thanks for stopping by today. Here are a list of my favorite blog posts from last year. Keep in mind I wrote 234 in all. Enjoy To remember, to regret, to renew The Mother/Father Double Standard Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting When motherhood gives you the middle finger Twitter will not destroy my marriage I before we, except after kids We have to save each other WTF is happy hour? The Raw Chicken in the Room Cactus Panties Spilled Milk A Hundred Years War No Air No F**ks to give The Dinner Party (a short story)

Great Expectations {my daughter and me}

In early December I wrote my heart out about a fight I had with my daughter.  I'm not proud that I let an argument with my six year old get the best of me.  I'm not proud of how I acted, or the fact that I lost my voice, but writing it here, putting it all out there, it opened me up to acceptance.  It allowed me to accept advice from readers, who I'm sure were a little shy to bring up behavioral issues that make parents recoil.  It allowed me to accept constructive criticism from other people in my life on how I handled things.  It also allowed me to open myself up and accept the fact that she and I both may need help, like the professional kind. And I was totally fine with all of that.  I can accept those things.  Then I was on Facebook a few nights later, and found a post by Hands Free Mama, the title: The Bully too Close to Home.  And I just knew.  I just had this feeling, that I would connect with this post, that I would see myself in this post.  I just didn't realize how close to home it would hit.
The Bully too Close to Home is about Rachel and her first born daughter.  It's about a mother and daughter where the mother is a drill Sargent like antagonizer and the daughter is just a daughter, a child, a human.  I read so many things that resonated with me, I had to put my phone down twice.  Then I had to re read it twice.  Because I am the Bully in this house.  I am the Bully in my daughters life.  And that was something so ugly and hard to admit to myself that it made me sick to my stomach.
After reading Rachel's post, I thought about all of the ways I had been bullying my daughter. I thought about the standard of behavior I expected out of her.  I thought about all of the ways that I would and could correct her in a day.  Her socks didn't match, her hair was in her eyes, she was picking her nose (again!), her pants were sagging, she was biting her nails, I could go on, but you get the picture.  I thought about all of the times she bore the brunt of my frustrations.  How I was quickest to yell at her before everyone else.  How I would point out situations in which I had asked her to do "A", she chose to do "B" and now we had to do "C", and that was all her fault.  It isn't pretty my friends, but it is honest to God real life.  I was doing this.  I had been doing this for awhile, and now I was at a point where I wanted to stop, but was afraid that even if I did stop, too much time had passed.  That I would forever be her biggest bully.
A few nights after reading Rachel's post and about a week after our big fight, I was out with two of my dearest friends for one of their birthday's.  It was a great night spent talking about all things life, marriage, and family.  Then we started talking about writing, since two of us write, and I brought up Hands Free Mama. We talked about that post, and I confessed that I was the Bully in my home.  And that I was so embarrassed and devastated that I couldn't see that in myself until I read that post.  Then without even thinking about it I said,
"I have no idea why I expect her to be perfect when I'm not"
And that my friends was the break through.  The ahh-ha moment.
From the moment she was born, I expected perfection.  From her, from me.  I was under the impression that motherhood was going to be like any other job I ever had.  I was going to go through a training period, and then soon I was going to be a productive employee just as I had been in every job since college.  In case you are wondering, I'm still in training, I'm always learning.  But from the get go I have expected perfection out of that child.  I wanted her to be the perfect eater, the perfect sleeper, the perfect crawler, the perfect walker, and as she got older the perfect reader and the perfect speller. I wanted her to be quiet and play nicely with the other kids.  I wanted her to be the perfect child, with a clean room, clean teeth, and no arguments about bedtime.
Can you say Great Expectations?
As time went on, and as life didn't go according to plan, I allowed myself to lessen the expectation on myself, but never lessening the expectation of my daughter.  Why did I allow myself such grace and not do the same for her?  I have no idea.  I can't even begin to answer that question.  Maybe I thought that with enough "direction" (read bullying) I could direct her into the person I wanted her to be. Maybe I thought that her missteps were directly related to my mothering and that if I could see it, others could too.  Then they would know, that she's not perfect and that is my fault alone.  Maybe because I knew it was too late for me to be perfect, I could still strive for that for her.
Whatever the case may have been, it was so ugly and twisted that I just prayed and prayed that it wasn't too late.  That I wasn't too late to mend and repair my relationship with her. That I could finally let go of that perfect child I was expecting, and embrace the beautifully wild and chaotic spirit of a child that I got.  Because it's not for lack of love.  I love her, with my whole heart and whole self.  I've loved her every minute of her life, from the moment she took her first breath, from the moment she made me so sick with pregnancy.  From the moment those two pink lines appeared, I have loved her with such force.  So why on earth am I bullying her and her spirit?  And why does it seem that I can't love her without bullying her?
Since the discovery of my great expectations, I've tried to be more relaxed.  I've tried to be more positive.  I've tried to put myself in the shoes of a six year old.  I've even reminded myself that she is, in fact, SIX YEARS OLD.  I've switched my focus to showing love, instead of just talking about love.  I can tell her I love her a thousand times a day, but to show her, to do so without bullying her, that is what matters.  I'm on a mission to be less critical when she decides to wear leopard print leggings with a striped neon tank, and ugg boots for a trip to Target.  To not point out when she has a kool-aid mustache, or chocolate on her cheeks after a cupcake.  
These days, I try to ask her not to bite her fingernails down to the quick, and I try to remind her to wash her hands before dinner, instead of yelling and demeaning she do them.  Now I'm on a mission to ask, instead of pointing out what I don't like about a situation.  To stop myself from yelling before I even know what she is doing or not doing.  To take a breath, and remind myself, she is six, she is beautifully and wonderfully made, she is a gift, and she is no more perfect than I.  I cannot expect perfection from her when she expects not a single ounce of perfection from me.
Because if I'm being tearfully and brutally honest with you, she loves me anyway.  She loves me regardless of all the times I've yelled until I lost my voice.  All the times I pointed out that she put another hole in the knee of brand new pants, and for the love of all things cheetah print why are you getting holes in brand new pants.  She loved me when I was sad and depressed, and anxious and even when I didn't produce enough damn breast milk to feed her.  That kid, that child, that beautiful, stubborn, hard headed, creative, artistic, funny, sarcastic human loved me anyway.
And it's about time I showed her that I do love her the same.

Working Girl {week one 2014}

It's safe to say that if you follow me on Instagram then you know I returned to the work force last week.  It's been six years since I've had a steady job that requires me to wear make up and pants that don't have an elastic waist.  In addition I can't wear jeans or Toms.  What's a girl to do?  Buy a few pieces here and there, then shop the hell out of her closet that she has been ignoring for the better part of the last six years.  Thanks to all my Instapals for your kind comments on my pictures.  You all make me feel better about some of my work clothing choices.  I feel like I'm a little rusty.  But I'm working my way back into the game.  Here is what I wore on week one.  

For the record I didn't wear the jacket or scarf at work.

But I kind of like the way this all goes together.

I look like one of those people on Pinterest who are walking carefree in the park,

holding a coffee, and an awesome tote bag.  But I'm not because,

I don't have anyone to take my pictures.

Also I'm wearing my wedding ring again, because now I have somewhere to wear it.

Scarf: Eddie Bauer Outlet (this year)

Denim Jacket:  The Gap (circa 2001)

Actual outfit worn for my return into the wonderful world of retail.

Lace shirt: Kohl's, Lauren Conrad (fall 2013)

New Black Skinnies: Ann Taylor Loft (after Christmas sale 50%off)

Layering tank: Target

Brown Boots (my old stand bys): Kohl's (2012)

I had this mapped out in my mind for a few days, but with a denim shirt.

The denim shirt wasn't dressy enough for my taste so I added a mustard cardi.

Same boots as Monday, and a layering tank to make sure my boobs didn't fall out.

I mean no one wants to see those, I promise.

New gray trouser skinnies: Anne Taylor Loft (this year, 50% off at their clearance sale)

Lace tank: Target (summer)

Layering tank: Old Navy

Boyfriend Cardi: Target (last year)

Lets have an honest talk here.  The pants I'm wearing, I found them in a bag

marked garage sale, no joke.  The Hubbs brought in the bag from the last garage sale, I went through it again and found these brown pants from, wait for it, 2001.  They were bought the same day as the denim jacket in picture one.  Cardi, blouse, and nude flats are new purchases.  I liked this outfit because it was comfortable, but looked put together.

Cream cardi: Target

Polka Dot Shirt: NY and CO

Brown trousers: Gap (2001)

Nude flats: Payless

Let's talk dirty mirrors for a moment.  Didn't notice it until I was ready to post this picture.  Shameful.

Skinny trousers again, but only because my other pants are getting alterations.

Wine and leopard is a combo that I just love.  Brown boots again, but they are hard to see.

Those babies are from Kohl's.  Also the leopard sweater is from Mervyn's (moment of silence for dead retailers), and its from the girls department because I'm kinda short.

So remember that giveaway from Kiki La Rue I won?  Well I indulged in this gold and black cardi called the Gatsby.  The gold is fantastic and has some shine to it.  I'm not usually a fan of gold and shiny, but it's super glamorous.  I paired it with a different lace shirt that has sleeves (that you can't see), and black trousers I found hiding in my closet from my former life as an escrow assistant.  New black flats that aren't as comfortable as my nude ones, which sucks because these were twice as much!

Gatsby Cardi: Kiki La Rue

Lace Shirt: American Eagle (2012)

Black Trousers: Ann Taylor Loft (circa 2006)

Black Flats: Aldo

All in all a great first week at work.  Did my feet hurt?  Yes.  Was I exhausted?  Absolutely.  Did I have fun?  Yeah, I really did.  Being out in the world is kind of fun.  Did I miss my bloggy world and Instagram friends?  So much.  But by posting my outfits everyday, I felt like I wasn't totally in the dark.  And look at this selfie, I even wore earrings.  It says a lot about a person's new adventure in life, when it requires her to do her eyebrows and wear earrings on the same day.  Snort.

PS: if you want to follow my inspiration for all my work outfits, follow my Working Girl board on Pinterest.

Grace not perfection {via Emily Ley}

A few weeks ago, this made the rounds on my Instagram feed.

Pinterest / emily ley

A story so simple, a couple of mom's talking about how very hard it is to be moms.  This my friends is something that I desperately need.  This daily reminder that grace is so much more meaningful than perfection.  This has become my mantra for 2014.  Is should remain as a mantra for my life, because motherhood is so full of moments where grace is a far better option than perfection.
But to really understand what it means to strive for grace, I had to really understand the meaning of grace.  I mean Mackenzie's middle name is Grace, but why?  I always thought that Grace described a peaceful state of being.  Grace, just the sound of it.  One can be graceful, one can give grace, once can even be called "your Grace", but what does any of it mean?  And how can one strive for Grace over Perfection when the idea of true grace escapes them?
Then I found this with a comment attached that read: I think it's hard for people who may not have a close relationship with Jesus to understand what 'grace' means, and I think this is a perfect explanation.

Pinterest / Source

I have no idea who wrote that, and if you know, please leave it in the comments.  But this quote stopped me cold.  This is exactly what I was looking for, a meaning, a true meaning, behind this one little word: Grace.  It's the only reason we are able to open our eyes each morning.  It's more than a second chance, it's a third, a fourth, a fifth.  It's a love that keeps on giving regardless of our past.
Is there anything more beautiful or more inviting?  The idea of holding yourself to a standard of grace can take on a host of meanings, but for Emily Ley, it was about motherhood.  And I can totally fall in line with that.  In motherhood, I need to strive for grace, every day of the week.  I no longer strive for perfection, but damn if I don't continue to hold myself a standard of perfection.  Maybe not in the ways that I used to, but there is still a standard, much lower than in the past.  For me motherhood continues to be about getting those third, fourth and fifth chances.  On days that my temper is the only emotion I show.  At night when we are so close yet so far away from bedtime.  On those days when backpacks are forgotten, and homework is late, and everyone decides they don't like what mommy spent all afternoon cooking for dinner.  I will need grace in those instances.  I will need to remind myself that this life of a mother isn't about perfection.  It's about perseverance, with grace.
Motherhood is in no way easy.  Striving for grace isn't going to change anything about motherhood. It's still going to be hard.  It's still going to tow the line between chaotic and joyful, some spilling over the sides day after day.  Yet with a little grace, bumps in the road wouldn't be so devastating.  They will no longer feel like such a failed attempt.  With a little grace, they lose the liberty of taking on a life of their own.  With a little grace, the mole hills can stay mole hills. Like the quote above says, grace is like a love that keeps on giving, unconditionally, regardless of what has happened in the past. As a mother, that is music to my ears.
Now as I go though my days I will repeat, Grace not perfection, silently to myself.  On some days I'm sure I will have to say them a thousand times.  On other days only a few.  But what an idea to uphold for yourself.  To strive for grace, in every aspect of life, not just motherhood.  To offer grace to those that need it in return.  
Because who needs perfection when you can have Grace?

Perfectly Imperfect

Pinterest / Source

Oh how I wish I had known this from the very beginning.  I wish someone had said those magic words. To let me in on the giant secret of motherhood.  There are no perfect mothers, but we are the perfect mother for our children.  Because each child is different, because each mother is different, because some of us need mothering boot camp to really know what we are made of.
I needed it, you know.  Mothering boot camp.  That's what I call that first year of being a mother, Boot Camp.  Because it was hard, I was in the trenches, and in the end, I survived, but I also learned a lot about myself.  Even at 29 years old, I wasn't really ready to be a mother.  If I'm honest I wasn't ready to give up my sleep, to give up my freedom to read a book well into the wee morning hours, to have to do something other than watch Grey's Anatomy on Thursday night.  I would have told you I was ready.  Ready and willing to give up those choice adult freedoms, but I was a liar.  I know that because when my daughter was born, shit got real.  Really, effing real.
I wasn't ready nor prepared for a baby that didn't sleep.  That didn't eat.  That didn't, or shall I say refused to sleep in her crib.  I wasn't ready for a child that didn't take naps, that didn't eat on any kind of schedule I tried, that hated to ride in a car.  Every book I had read, every mom I talked to (except one) said that eventually my baby would sleep in her crib.  With enough sleep training she would sleep through the night, that eventually she would tire herself out when she screamed in the car and would eventually sleep.  Can I just say that "she" is now six years old, and has yet to fall asleep on any car ride, the three hour or more car rides included.  You see, what those damn books never mentioned was that I may get blessed with a child who had her own agenda.
An agenda that I would have to adapt to, instead of the other way around.
So I'm here to tell you, that your kid who can't abide by napping alone, who can't take a bottle no matter who gives it to him, who for the love of God will not sleep past five o'clock in the morning is perfectly normal.  Your child is normal in a way that only other mothers who have children like this can understand, because you know what?  Not everybody has one.
The spirited child, the active child, the no effing agenda but their own child.  Yup, I've got one.  She is a gift, and I'll tell you why.  She taught me so much about myself.  She taught me that I can and continue to do hard things.  Like all the hard things.  She taught me that it is possible to survive on four hours of sleep, and still make it work.  That it's ok to sit on the couch and hold her for three hours because if I move even a little to the left she will wake up and nap time will be a complete fail.  That it's ok that your kid sleeps with you, still.  Even if you tell everyone she doesn't.
People with kids that follow all the rules as outlined in What to Expect, have no idea about this life.  A life that needs no digital alarm clock because you have a human one.  A life that doesn't include a "family nap time" or any "nap time" for that matter.  A life that is one big ferris wheel ride, that never stops but sees the same ups and downs occur in similar twenty four hour patterns.  They have no idea what that's like, not on a constant basis.  
I know what some of you reading this may be thinking.  You're the parent, they are the child, infant even if you still have babies.  Why don't you just get your shit together and make that kid do what you want?  They don't make the rules, you do.  Bless your gumption, but I tried.  I tried for the better part of a two years.  I spent a stellar night with the Hubbs when Caitlin was nine months old sleep training her. The end result: she cried for 35 minute increments at a time from 9 pm until 2 am.  And finally at 2 am, when we just couldn't take it anymore, we laid her in our bed, and within a ten count she was asleep. This is the same child that when told she had to drink milk out of a sippy cup instead of a bottle refused milk all together.  Even now, she just won't drink milk in a glass.  This is the same child that when "bagged" for a urine sample at 11am, held her pee, even after 2 icees, and one 16 oz Dr. Pepper, until we removed it six hours later, and she peed the equivalent of the Pacific Ocean.  I wish I was kidding.
So you see, my daughter had her own agenda as soon as she slid out of the birth canal.  No book, no Dr. Ferber, no Happiest Baby on The Block, no Dr. Spock, no Supper Nanny was ever going to change that.  
I wish someone would have told me that then.
I happened upon an Instagram conversation on Saturday.  A picture of a very cute almost one year old crying in her highchair.  Her mother's hashtag read: #meangirl #mommygetspresentsinstead.  It was something I could totally relate to.  And attached to the picture, comments about other children, with similar cranky pants to wear, and their mothers wondering when it would all end.  I remember those days.  When my baby would cry and tantrum over the most confusing things.  When they refused every food you put in front of them, and then would eat whatever they found on the floor.  Tears because they were tired, tears because they were rested, tears because it was Saturday.  I remember all of it.  So I left a comment about the light at the end of the tunnel:  It gets better, for me it took about 18 months... And that is the truth.  
For me and my baby, it took 18 long and tearful months long to turn that corner.  Where she was finally content as a little person, and I was finally confident as a mother.  A place where I could admit defeat by an almost two year old, and not have it devastate the world around me. A place where small victories included string cheese lunches, and naps in my lap while I watched every NCIS episode ever made, admitting to myself that the laundry would always need washing, but my baby wouldn't always need to be held.  And that part hurts to type, because that spirited baby is going to be seven in June, and she hardly fits in my lap.  She doesn't even try to get in my lap much anymore.
So new mama, toddler mama, preschool mama, you are the perfect mother for your child. That one you have that pushes that certain button.  That one that wakes you before the sun is out.  That child that no matter how many bribes refuses to poop on the potty.  You are perfect for him or her.  No matter what that book said, no matter what that other blogger may have said, no matter what celebrity says otherwise.  Because they do not have the privilege and the gift that is your personal human alarm clock.