the well runs deep and dry

I've got so much to say, but my brain is like a colander and it just slides right out before I can catch it.

1. I read an article a few days ago where the author talked about how we have this internalized fat-shaming thing going on. We can look at other people and accept them where we are and think that they are beautiful, but when we look at ourselves, we just can't do that. She said, "If you hate the way your before picture looks, do you think I need to lose weight?" insinuating that if we don't like the way we look, do we think that people who look similar to us need to change as well?
I was so struck by that.

Because I look at all the beautiful people I'm surrounded by, and I am so proud of them and their accomplishments. Sure, I see physical "flaws" (society says), but I applaud them for using their bodies and don't judge them or think they should change their appearance. However, I can pick myself apart in front of a mirror in 2.5 seconds and give you a blanket list of everything on my body that needs to change.

Why? Why can I find other people beautiful and worthy, but not do it for myself? My body is healthy and strong, it makes babies and keeps them alive, it loves people well, it goes on adventures and explores, and generally lets me live a wonderful and beautiful life. So why can't I see all of that when I look in the mirror, instead of the layer of fat riding on top of my stomach, or the cellulite all over my thighs?

I become consumed with a sort of panic--I need to change this now! and it deteriorates into, "How can I change (read: become acceptable) myself as soon as possible?" Counting calories, elimination diets, health supplements, any and everything gets thrown onto the drawing board, because pretty soon it deteriorates into being all about appearance rather than taking care of myself.
Basically, I'm having a hard time right now. I feel like a gigantic, enormous failure, because I reached so many goals and finally felt at peace with myself and my body while also improving my health, but now I'm here, 3 years later, and I just feel stuck. I'm tired of the process, I'm tired of picking myself back up after I fall face-first into a pile of sugar, and I want a quicker fix (but am coming back to the fact that I don't think there is one).

2. This video makes me cry every single time I watch it, because it speaks to so many areas of my heart that just feel bruised and battered right now.

Women's roles in ministry (and all of the discrimination/inequality my eyes are finally seeing)

Pursuing your dreams and calling, in spite of logistics

Making room for my husband's calling, and helping him pursue it

I am wrestling, wrestling, wrestling.
I feel like Jacob, when he spent the night wrestling with God, and got so tired, but he wouldn't stop until God blessed him. I can't leave this alone, even if I am injured in the process, because I just need to know. So I keep sweating, and straining, and yelling at God to let me in, let me see, let me hear, because I want it all.

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On why I am tired of The Church

Oh, I am so weary.
Today I have just had it. The straw that broke the camel's back landed in my bag and I am firmly on the other side of "I'm done".

I am so tired of this Church.

This judgmental, angry, hypocritical, whitewashed church.
The ones who spout love with one breath, and judgment and condemnation with another.

The ones who claim to follow Christ, and yet seem to ignore those great commandments of loving God first and then loving others. (Can we all take a minute and note how we, ourselves, do not even make the top list of people we are supposed to care about?!)

I am so worn out from fighting it, and trying to convince myself that it's not like this, and that The Church is still there and still beautiful, and still in love with Christ. Because right now, when I look around, I see a Church in love with the Law and in love with themselves and this masquerade of Righteousness that they are convinced they are living out. Like the Crusaders, firmly convinced that spreading Christianity means beating other people to death.

I just can. not. take. any. more.

So I'm out.
Do you hear me?

I am OUT, Church.

You can find me in the dens of iniquity, hiding with my LGBTQ family, my fellow addicts, losers, left-wing, liberal, worldly, SINNERS.
Because that is who I am, and this is where I belong. Right back in the place that Jesus plucked me from, so that I can hope and pray that He will use me to help pluck someone else from that place. I cannot hold my head up high anymore and say that I am okay with the attitudes running through the Evangelical Church right now. The judgment disguised as "encouragement", the hypocrisy disguised as care, the moral high ground disguised as leadership. I don't want any part of it.

I love my local church body. I love my fellow Christians who are truly in love with Christ and are genuinely living that out. I love the women that, every day, push me to challenge my old ways and thinking and to make sure they truly line up with Scripture and the life God calls me to live. Those are the people I will cling to and fight the battles of this world with. But I am tired of trying to align myself with others who believe that people are the enemy, and not the evil authorities of the spiritual realm.

I just don't have the energy to hate anymore.

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write what you know

I've been blogging for a long time. A little over ten years actually. In that time, I've gone from being an angsty teen, pouring out her emotions all over the interwebz, to entering a mommy-blogger-wannabe phase in which I really struggled with marketing myself and attempting to monetize my blog and profit off of it, and now finally landing in this strange area where I am so much a mother and so deep in my own mire that I have often wondered if there is any point in trying to keep this thing going.

You may have gathered this by now, but I am struggling with the value and purpose of my own story.

It feels like everyone else, it seems like I have nothing new to contribute to the conversation, and I remain unconvinced that I need to add to the virtual noise that is currently streaming around us.

Unfortunately for me (and maybe you, if you're stuck reading this), I have never, ever, ever, throughout my entire life, been able to turn off the word faucet. I've tried many times, and I've gotten it to dry up to a trickle, but it remains steadfastly flowing and moving, whether I want it to or not. Which always leaves me here, in a quiet room with fingers tapping and a brain trying to translate all the electrical pulses flowing through it into coherent words and sentences, like:

Inadequacy
-This is a supreme emotion, one that tears through my body with free reign, wreaking havoc and chaos wherever it goes. It tells me that I am not enough, have never been enough, and will not ever be enough. It declares, loudly and triumphantly, "You lose, you fail, you fall short, you are worthless for even trying, so just give up already." It attacks at all angles, leaving no area of my life untouched, and no accomplishment unblemished. It has tormented me for as long as I can remember, and even though I feel like I have gotten much stronger at battling it, there are still seasons where it just seems to be lurking around every corner.

Selfishness
-This sneaky bugger whispers that only truly selfish women believe that they should have a purpose outside of motherhood (which, interestingly enough, means that it co-mingles with pride) and for me to take time away from my family, or even feel like I deserve time away, means that I am filled with the utmost of selfish longings and am once again, inadequate in so many areas.

Disappointment
Ah, the sting of an unfulfilled dream and a life left un-lived. Blessed as I am, there are too many moments (selfishness) where I find myself wondering what it is that I'm doing and why. This is often followed by long diatribes in which I moan about how I'm too young to be married and have two children, and mourn the loss of the life I could have had, had I made a different choice: (insert life choice here)

And so there you have it.
The ugly, rambling impulses of my brain that is chronically sleep-deprived, ridiculously overworked, and probably under-nourished. Heaven knows why I'm even putting this out there, but I think it's because I just can't let the toxicity of it all keep building up in my brain and the internet seems as good a place as any to dump your baggage.

Voila, interwebz. The drama continues.

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the luck of the draw (or reader)

Today it occurred to me that every single person out there who writes books and blog posts that command audiences of thousands are still just one single person.

Just one. One person, with their singular thoughts and viewpoints on things, but for whatever reason, the world has risen up to take notice and now listens to what they have to say and values their opinion in some form or another.

How does this process even happen? How do you hit that lucky post or book or paragraph that defines you and draws a crowd, making everyone rise and say, "This person has something valuable to say and we should definitely listen."

Oh fate. What a fickle beast of burden you are.

Today, as I was lying on my bed after trying to get the toddler down for a nap for the third time, I had a moment of overwhelming despair (as is rather common for the stay-at-home mother on a Thursday afternoon). 'What am I doing with my life? No one sees this. No one knows that I'm even here, fighting these little, seemingly insignificant battles that all add up to one very significant life. Is this really all I was made for?'

Don't get me wrong. I know what I do is important. I know some consider it to be the most important job in the world, molding young lives. I know that I am the only mother my children will ever have, that I am the perfect mother for those kids, that what I am doing is worthwhile and worthy.

But sometimes, those creeping moments catch you unguarded, flat on your back with sweatpants on, dirty hair, and a feverish preschooler on the couch, and you are simply stripped bare to your core--"Who am I? Whose life am I living?" We all like to think that we're the special ones, the ones worth listening to, the ones ready to command the world to sit up and notice us--Hear what we have to say, oh Earth! Listen to our lofty and glorious opinions!

Tragically, most of us don't actually get a say, and the world really doesn't care what we think. And sometimes that's depressing and full of despair, but other times it's full of relief. A sigh of freedom, at the end of the night when the kids are in bed and the dishes are done and it's all you had to do. Netflix is waiting, there's a wine glass in hand, and its not up to you to save the world or change anyone's opinion on anything, other than how great 'Gilmore Girls' is. So sometimes this life is enough. Sometimes this body is beautiful, with it's soft edges and it's scars and strong arms from carrying children and creaky knees from a life of ice skating and bending and climbing and running and living. Sometimes this mind is wise, full of knowledge from mistakes made and lessons learned and facts gained from reading, reading, reading. Sometimes this heart is just tender enough, in the face of a sick son, and an accomplished daughter, and a hard-working husband, and a God who is merciful. Sometimes this soul is full up of the things God has done, the promises He has kept and the gestures He has made in this very ordinary, very important, very average life.

Sometimes the words are enough, if I'd just sit down and let them out once in awhile.

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rust and dust and dry bones

It's been too long.
(I feel like I'm always saying that.)

I don't know where writing fits into my life anymore, or even where it should fit.
It was a part of my identity that I clung to for so long, doling it out whenever I could help it.
"What do you do?"
"I just want to write."

And now that feels...still true, and also not true.
For so long writing was air, it was breathing, it was life.
But then I started living without it and realized that I could.

Now I'm back from the experiment and I don't know if I've learned that I can live without it, or if I've learned that just because I can doesn't mean I should. I think I get stuck inside my head too much, and I censor myself before I've even had a chance to unravel what needs to be said and what needs to be put forward. I can't figure out who my audience is or should be and so I never know what to say because I don't know that (the proverbial) you need to hear.

And lately all I can think about it purpose and meaning.
Do I matter? Does my story have a place in this world? Is what I'm doing enough? Does what I do make any sort of difference? And if it does, to who? And are they enough to keep going?

Motherhood has taken over my identity. It has usurped any sense of "woman" that I used to have. Now, before I am a woman, or a wife, or a writer, I am a mom. And I don't think that this is the right order. It's not supposed to be that way, but how do you tell yourself that when it's 1 am, and your daughter is clinging to you while your son snuggles himself into the curve of your back and it's going on 24 hours that you've literally had someone touching you at all times and you just need to breathe for. one. second. How do you hold onto your sense of self in those moments? Who are you? Who am I? Who am I supposed to be?

There are a hundred and one blog posts out there in internet world telling us that yes, motherhood matters, and don't worry about the crumbs on the floor because there is glory and purpose in the mundane, and just look in your child's eyes and see the purpose that God has put there, and just hang on sweet momma because this will be over before you know it--but what happens when it's over and you've lost yourself in the process and your kids leave and it's just you and God almighty left. Who are you then?
I don't want that to be me. And I don't want this to be one more page of words in the internet world talking about glory in the mundane and purpose in the dirt on the floor. Because all of that is true, but isn't it also true that we were created for more than this? We were created to live, and we were all gifted with the ability to do something that makes our souls fly and our hearts sing. So what do you do when you can't find it and all you've got left is the dirt? And those children, those two beautiful children with the chocolate brown eyes, and the chubby fingers, and the dimples, that will suck every last bit of you out of your body if you let them--what about the moments where your soul is doing the opposite of flying when you look at them and your heart is dying a slow death instead?

Dear God, give me back a piece of myself. Show me what to run towards, instead of trying to force my life into the picture I think it should look like. Because I know myself. I run towards shiny objects, and a life that looks full of happiness and perfection, but when I get there (IF I get there), it's never what I thought it was going to be. I'm tired of running for fool's gold. I want the real life, the full life, the God-life. I want the fulfillment that comes from knowing that I am doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing exactly where I am supposed to be doing it. I want the peace that comes from being filled and then turning around and filling others. I need that peace. I'm dying for it. If ever there was someone parched for Living Water, dear God, it's me.

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lost and found

I feel like I spend an abnormal amount of time writing and talking and thinking about motherhood, but I guess that makes sense considering I am swallowed up in it literally 24 hours a day.

With the addition of a second child, I am finding more and more that I feel like I've completely lost any sense of who I am outside of changing diapers, sweeping crumbs, and trying to come up with creative activities that don't involve any sort of screen or animated character. I forget that I was once a person with autonomy, someone that had talents outside of being able to carry a screaming toddler, carseat with infant inside, AND diaper bag all at once. I used to write, and read books, and have friends, and stay up late talking with my husband just because we could.

Now, I write about my kids, I read about things I need to do so I am better for my kids, I have friends with kids, and I stay up late talking with my husband because it's the only time of day we see each other without being climbed on, puked on, or cried at (unless its me, crying at him).

I'm trying desperately to regain some of myself, but in doing so, I'm realizing just how much of myself has changed. I look back on that twenty-one year old that flitted around Chicago and I cannot help but wonder at how self-absorbed and so incredibly naive I was. Obviously some of that is normal, since you only change and grow by going through life-altering events, but it also makes me feel like I'm on shaky ground, because I don't know just how much of that silly girl to reclaim. My children are my life, my job--being a mother is what I want to do, and who I want to be. But it's not everything. It can't be everything, because if I lose myself in that, I put the burden of my identity on my kids, and that's something that they should never carry or be responsible for.

So for now, I'll sit here and try to scrape the rust off my fingers, and pick up a book that has nothing to do with parenting in any sense and I'll try to remember that I am capable of creating things outside of human life (even though they have been my best work yet).

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trenches and ugly hearts

I yelled at my son tonight.

I'd been fighting the black pit of rage for the better portion of an hour as he screamed, bit, punched, kicked, and generally created havoc around him while letting me know that he was absolutely not going to go to bed peacefully. Then he woke up his sister, asked to nurse for the thousandth time, and got mad when he didn't think he'd accomplished a certain task to his satisfaction.
And that is when I just snapped and screamed from deep down inside, right in his face.
And then his heart broke, and he cried despair, and my heart broke, and I immediately hugged him close and said, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Jameson, I'm so sorry. That was wrong, and I am so sorry."
And I was sorry, and heart-broken, but there was this part of me that was still so angry and full of rage, and it battled with the Jesus-portion of my heart that was screaming for me to see past the noise and the emotion and just love on my poor, confused, exhausted two-year old, because he wasn't doing this to me on purpose.

And once again, I was faced with the reality of just how ugly my heart is.

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I am a mess of emotion lately.

I've had a few trusted people ask me how I am doing, in regards to PPD, and being on the watch for signs of it to arrive, and I've had to step back and say that I'm really not sure if how I'm feeling has to do with the hormones from giving birth or if it's all just the outcome of circumstances for the last year.

I know this past year was a hard one for many, and it seems that our family was no exception. We've faced storms that I never thought we'd see, and have been barraged on all sides by an enemy trying to absolutely destroy us. We've come close to destruction, and despair, and I have spent more nights than I care to remember crying out to the Lord to just spare us. Just once, dear God, spare us this heartache.

And He has answered--in some ways that are satisfying, and others that are not.

So we continue to hold on, and ride through this hurricane, and pray that it ends one day soon.

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My mantra lately has been, "This will not last."

Most of the time, I'm using it to try and remind myself to seize the moment and embrace the sweetness of holding my children tight, or listening to them laugh, or watching them learn and explore. But other times it's simply a chant to make myself hold on, to keep battling through, because this insanity cannot last forever. 

I am deep in the trenches of motherhood, sometimes so deep that it's difficult for me to see the sky. I have minutes where I find such an incredible joy to have the privilege of staying home with my children and serving my family that I am satisfied deep down into my bones. And then the pendulum will swing, and I find myself wondering why I had children, and questioning if perhaps I am one of those women who only *thought* she should be a mother, but really should never have procreated at all.

I love my children so much that my heart often feels like it's going to burst from the emotion of it all, but I would by lying if I didn't admit that there are many hours I spend missing the time when it was just Hubs and I, and dreaming about what I am going to do with all my free time once my children are grown. Humiliating, but true. 

I am still as selfish as ever. 

In short, every day is a battle, and I give you permission to spend too much money at Chick-Fil-A so that your kid can play behind glass while you drink sugary tea and almost relax for the first time in 24 hours.

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words

I miss crafting with words.
I miss the flow, the spiral, the effortless dance that my fingers would play out while the words locked inside my head were fed through my fingertips and onto a page.
It hardly required effort, there wasn't even much thought attached, it was simply there--open the page, unlock the brain and go.

Today has been harder than I'd like to admit.
My first day back at this stay-at-home mom gig, and we've had a struggling afternoon. Jameson is finally napping now (please God, for at least another hour), and I managed to get some errands done (although I forgot the milk for Hubs tea. Dang it.), but this was not without mass effort.

I am lacking in patience, I am lacking in understanding, I am lacking in toddler-whispering skills that allow one to get through places like the library and Target without your two-year old son screaming at other children who happen to also be glancing at the Sesame Street DVDs, and grown women also buying bleach in the laundry aisle.
Time and again I come around with, "These are for everyone, and I know it makes you upset when you see other people using them, but we have to take turns. If you cannot take turns, we will leave." and then there are more shrieks, and then there is me, wrestling with a 30-pound mass of muscles and fury while trying to stand upright with a six-month old fetus in my belly.
What a sight to behold.

All those magic words, and acronyms spelling out empathy, and scripts listed out generally seem to work about 10% of the time, and the other 90% I am left fluttering around, praying to Jesus that I am not inherently creating a monster in this moment, and that I am also responding with as much grace and love as I can muster.
Why can't any of this just be clear cut?

Because humans are not clear cut, and if you are looking for evidence of this, look no further than my two-year old son who is at the height of his humanity. He has not yet figured out how to temper or hide his emotions, and so they are all there for everyone to see, front and center. And if you ever doubted that human beings were confused, easily upset, lost little creatures, then come and spend an afternoon at my house and observe otherwise.

I see myself in him all too often, crying up at God with my mess of emotions and humanity smacking me in the face, begging for someone to calm me down and walk me through this hormonal cloud I am stuck in. Just like my son needs me to take his hand, look him in the eye, and articulate what he is feeling while reassuring him that there is someone there who understands, so I, too, need God to hold my heart and remind me that He is bigger than all of this, and He gets it.

I often feel like I've been left to figure things out on my own. And maybe I have, for a little while, because that is part of growing up. I won't be able to tell Jameson what's wrong forever (and I am sure that the time will come when he will not appreciate my assuming that I know), and so God is probably giving me space to learn myself and my reactions, and to see if I have made any progress on the tantrum-throwing front.

I don't have a resolution here, or an acronym for myself to recite in the moments that God is silent.
I don't have an encouraging word to end this with, a miracle story of the moment that God decided to open up the heavens and let me know that He's heard me crying for three years.
I've just got myself, and this fledgling faith that has somehow managed to keep itself rooted through the tsunami's its been through. Sometimes I doubt it's existence, but it's there, I know it's there, because it stabs me in the heart every time I try to walk away.

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the sleeping thing.

So there was this time that I had a baby (you may have figured this out by now).

Before I had this baby, I had this general assumption that I would make his nursery so cute that you could post pictures of it to Pinterest and that we'd hang out in there a lot, and he'd sleep through the night by about 6 months or so, and nap fairly regularly and then when we wasn't sleeping in his crib in his nursery, we'd go out and do all sorts of fabulous things that you see moms and their babies doing.
Then I decided, well babies are supposed to wake up a lot in the middle of the night, so maybe we'll get a Moses basket for the first few months and he can sleep next to the bed where Daddy can change him and I'll feed him and then we'll lay him back down and go back to sleep and that might make things a little easier. So we bought a brand new basket with cute matching sheets and teddy bears, and got a little stand so that it would be even with the side of the bed and had everything set up for when I went into labor and brought said baby home.

Then came June 30, 2011. My water broke at 12:30 am, Jameson was born at 7:14 am, and we came home by 10:30 pm. I remember getting home and looking around at about midnight (after skyping with my sisters back in the States) and thinking, "So...what do I do now?" Then my mother suggested that we should probably go to bed, and I thought, "Oh yes, this is when I get to put him in that cute little woombie I bought and lay him in his brand new bed and go to sleep because I am so exhausted from being awake for over 24 hours and GIVING BIRTH."
So we changed him, zipped him up in his swaddle (after having a long and arduous discussion about how many layers he needed. The books all tell you to make sure they're really warm, but not too warm, but not too cold. So, that's clear.) and laid him down in his bed.
And he started to scream.
I looked at my mother and my husband with this dazed glaze over my eyes and said, "Well, that wasn't supposed to happen." So I picked him up and nursed him in bed, and kind of laid him down next to me while I waited for him to fall asleep. Next thing I know, it's 3 in the morning and he's screaming again (I remember it being the loudest thing I'd ever heard, but I'm sure that was because I was so tired and had never actually had a newborn baby lying next to me) and in my delirious state I ripped off his swaddle, thinking that he hated it and hurriedly tried to figure out how to work my nursing bra and get his mouth in the right place at the right time. And that's pretty much how the rest of the night went.
Hubs and I woke up the next morning in a complete and utter stupor, handed the baby to my parents for a few hours and tried to sleep as much as we could.

The next five days were fairly similar, with variations in the form of trying to get Jameson to sleep in his moses basket (the only way we could make that work was if Hubs slept with his arm on the edge of the basket and his pinkie finger in his mouth so that he could suck), trying sleep with the woombie, trying it without, drinking lots of coffee, drinking no coffee (it upset bebe's little system and made him so anxious he'd just cry for hours). It was, essentially, the most exhausted, emotional, exuberant, hellish five days I've ever been through.

Then my parents flew back home to America.

I remember hearing people say that in the beginning, you just have to do whatever it takes to make it work. You sleep however you can get it, whenever you can get it, but no one really explained how to get a baby to do that too. So we tried a bedtime routine (6:30 rolled around and he got a wipe-down, baby massage, and nursed to sleep) which ended with me trying to transfer him into his basket while rocking it and hoping that he'd settle in. Occasionally this worked, for about 45 minutes, at which point I would then go back in, nurse him down again, and start all over. By about midnight each night, we gave up on the basket and would end up just letting him sleep next to us.

When he was six months old, we traveled to America to visit family, and although my parents graciously bought us a toddler tent with an air mattress, the kid would have none of it and ended up in our bed for a consecutive five weeks. I told myself we'd start "sleep training" when we got back and then he'd sleep through the night in his own room and I could stop being so tired that I felt like I was going crazy. So we got back and we tried it. Started out laying him down in his crib after the bedtime routine. He'd sleep for an hour, I'd go in, nurse again, lay him down (and pray I could get him down without him crying. This happened maybe 25% of the time) and have another hour before he woke up. Again, at midnight I'd be so tired that I'd give up and he'd come in to our room.
By now I was getting the guilt trips and hearing that other people's kids were sleeping through the night, and it's so unhealthy for your baby to still be sleeping with you, and you're just letting him take advantage of your emotions because he's willfully acting out and so I broke down one night and bought Ferber.

We tried it for a week and a half and I cried every single night.
Not once did he EVER sleep through, and at the end of the week and a half we found out that he had another ear infection. So we gave up on that for awhile, brought him back in with us, and decided we'd try it again when he got better.
He healed, we decided to go with the Sleep Lady Shuffle. He cried for THREE HOURS STRAIGHT, with me sitting right next to him telling him I loved him, but I couldn't pick him up and singing "Jesus Loves Me" with my heart in my throat. Quit after the second night.

Finally, when Jameson was about nine months old, I reached the point where I literally thought I was going to have to be hospitalized for sleep deprivation and depression. I was so tired that I would forget what I was saying in the middle of my sentence and couldn't think rationally about anything. I'd break down in tears over everything. Nothing was okay, nothing felt right, and I felt like the world's largest failure as a mother--I mean, who can't get her kid to sleep?!

I remember the moment I decided that I was done with everything. My last sane thought was, "I have got to start sleeping, and it doesn't matter how that happens." It didn't matter that everything I thought I knew about co-sleeping was that it was indulgent, dangerous, and letting-my-kid-have-his-own-way. I told Hubs that I was giving up on trying to get Jameson to sleep anywhere other than with us and he said, "Okay". And Jameson's been with us ever since.

And here is why I am telling you this.
I am telling you this, because I wish someone would have told me all of this, waaaaay back at the beginning when I had all of those expectations of pretty cribs and seven straight hours of sleep.
If your kid will not sleep in a crib, you are not a failure.
If you want to cry every time bedtime rolls around because you feel like you have no idea what you're doing, you are not a failure.
If you are terrified of "the sleeping thing" with your second child that you are currently pregnant with, you are not a failure. (Oh good, because that's me).

The Mommy Wars are raging hard, and for some reason, the sleep thing is one of the biggest battles.
When I think about this, logically and rationally however, it boggles my mind.
Why does it matter where anyone else's kid sleeps? Why does it matter if my kid sleeps for seven hours straight a night, or only recently stopped waking up in the middle of the night even though they're almost two? Why does everyone have an opinion on this, when there are fact-based studies showing that co-sleeping can be completely safe (and even, *gasp* desirable) if done correctly?

Why did I spend almost a year feeling bad about myself for letting my kid sleep in my bed, next to his momma, where he felt the safest?

I'm not here to argue either side of this, but this post has been on my heart for a long time. I see so many new parents who are trying desperately to cover up how much they are struggling with all of this and it breaks my heart. You don't have to keep your newborn on a minute-to-minute schedule, you don't have to go out and buy BabyWise, you don't even have to look guiltily down at the floor when someone asks you how your baby is sleeping and you say, "Um, they're okay, you know, they're still a baby!" I just want to run up to those people and let them know that right now, staying sane is the most important thing of all, and if that means letting your kid sleep in your bed, then let your kid sleep in your bed.

And if your kiddo loves their crib, and is happy in there, and sleeps straight through the night, then that makes me so happy for you, momma. But please, remember, there are those of us out there whose babies just don't work the same way as yours, and as much as we loved that crib we bought and that nursery we decorated, we're just trying to do the best that we can.

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just some stuff.

You know, I really thought that once I got this job, my blogging would increase ten-fold since I literally sit at a desk all day. But it's like, I start to think, "Maybe I should write something..." and then I go, "What do I even have to write about? How I ate lunch at 11:30 today instead of noon? How I've had to go to the bathroom every hour since I got here? That one time the coffee mugs were extra gross and I had to wash them all out and not gag?"

You get the picture.
Clearly my job is not the most intellectually stimulating experience. And I'm still struggling with that.
I got to spend time solo with Jameson this weekend and it was so wonderful. Profoundly exhausting, as simultaneously growing a human being inside of you and chasing a toddler (while trying to navigate through those incredibly murky waters of EMOTIONS) can be, but so wonderful. I knew in my bones that this is what I wanted to be doing with my time--taking my kid to Target and wandering the aisles, driving up to the mountains and going on his first "hike" (he's still talking about it. "Mountains, momma and da bwidge!"), grabbing lunch and just hanging out in the sunshine.
But it's Monday, and I'm in the office, in my chair, staring at this screen while Jameson is at Grandma's house, probably banging on the drums and running around outside and scaring the dog.

Contentment and peace.
God's been pushing that on me lately, and I'm trying to come towards it willingly.
Learning to live satisfied in the mediocrity of life, because that's where you spend the majority of your time, and if you can't be happy there, you won't be happy anywhere.
Being at peace with everyone, as long as it is up to you, and especially when it is up to you and the attitudes that you carry around. Rooting out all of the bitterness and jealousy that has been seeping in and rotting like a poison for years until you almost don't even notice it anymore, but it's there and it's still eating away. Bringing every single thought to Heaven, to sort through and examine and then let go.
What a novel idea. Letting go.

But this is it. The mediocre, the middle, the every day.
I did eat lunch at 11:30 today, because I am pregnant and extra hungry.
The coffee mugs were super gross this morning, and I hate that part of my job.
I go to the bathroom like I'm getting paid for it and it's annoying every single time.
There is a baby in my belly that moves so much it makes me wonder if there isn't more than one in there.
My son is so big and rambunctious during the day, and then when he falls asleep at night he somehow regresses back to that sweet baby I knew two years ago and it breaks my heart to walk out the front door every morning.
My life is tinged with sweetness and bitterness, happy and sad, excitement and boredom, and we are here in the middle of it all, just moving along.

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work/mom

I never wanted to be a working mom.
The plan was to stay home with  my kids after they were born--after all, I am their momma and I should be the one raising them, right?

For the first year and a half of Jameson's life, I was fortunate enough to be able to do this. England has an awesome maternity allowance scheme that meant I got paid for nine months while hanging out with my babe. Amazing.
When October/November of last year rolled around, I got a part-time holiday job at Lush and loved it--I worked 15-20ish hours a week, walked there, and didn't ever have to work very late. It gave Jameson some time with Papa or Ah-ma and Yeh-yeh and it was fine. I made some friends and got some much-needed independence.

However, once we moved back to America, Hubs and I both knew that the situation was going to have to change. Moving transatlantically is expensive, and we did it twice. It meant that we both had to work, no matter how much I didn't want to.
Now, the incredible upsides to our situation are many: my parents or sisters are able to watch Jameson while Hubs and I are both working, and if I have to leave him, who better than with his own family?
Also, my office is extremely relaxed and very willing to work with me on scheduling. Everyone here loves my little family and they know how important they are to me.
Hubs and I work opposite schedules, and although this can be tough in the marriage department, it's easier in the childcare one. He gets to stay home with Jameson while I'm at work, then my family has him for an hour or so until I get home and take over. So really, J's got at least one parent with him for most of the day.
Finally, my working has taught Jameson some much-needed independence and strengthened the bond between Hubs and himself. He is now perfectly okay with waving goodbye, saying "Love you, momma" and heading out the back door to play. He knows I'm coming back, and he knows he's with people that care.

So. There is a lot of good in this situation.

But. But, but, but.

Every day, my heart hurts to be away from my kiddo and it makes me want to cry a little when I get home and watch him do something I've never seen before, but everyone else has. Or when he talks in his own little gibberish-y language and Hubs automatically knows what he's saying while I'm sitting in the dark.
I never wanted to do this work-away-from-home thing. That's why I wanted to be a writer--so I could be at home with my kids and still contribute. And even though I know this situation is (probably) somewhat temporary, it's still hard. I feel like I'm running a race, and I'm running out of endurance. I'm experiencing that split feeling that so many working moms talk about--like you aren't doing a great job at work or at home because there is just too much going on in both places. Not to mention that trying to take care of myself has fallen to the bottom of the pile, because any time I am at home, I am thinking about how I need to be with my family.

I have no resolutions or answers for any of this, other than to just keep going. I'm still "technically" part-time, even though I work nearly 31 hours a week. (Tack on my commute, and it's probably almost 40.)
I am so fortunate to even be able to work, and to have a job, so please don't think I am unaware of this. I just feel torn in half sometimes, and it's an uncomfortable state that I'm learning to live in.

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isolation.

Jameson didn't cry when I left the house for work this morning.

I know this is progress.
I'm glad my child wasn't left screaming and banging the door down after I walked out of it.
But at the same time, I had this strange, heart-wrenching moment of realization that he doesn't need me as much as he used to. Cue sadness.

Being a momma is the most contradictory, difficult, and completely illogical thing I have ever, EVER done.

I mean, I am happy that my kid didn't cry when I left this morning, but also kind of broken-hearted about it. How does that even add up or make sense?
Or how about those moments when I am so bone-tired, and Jameson just wants a little bit more of me than I think I can give him and I am overwhelmed with how much I love him, but also how much he drives me crazy.

I think the difficulty lies in making peace with the feelings.

It's easy to feel guilt over feeling 1200 different ways about your children--all at the same time.
It's easy to look at yourself and think, "If I were a better mom, I wouldn't be exasperated right now--I'd just be so thankful that I even have a child, not to mention the fact that he is healthy and smart and has food to eat." and then we dig ourselves into a hole with all of the ways we SHOULD be feeling piled up on top of the guilt for the things that we ARE feeling.

When did motherhood become so cut and dried and black and white?
When did it become easy to look around and see how we are supposed to be and all of the areas that we're failing in, instead of noticing the things we have managed to accomplish--like growing a tiny human INSIDE OF OUR BODIES, and then keeping said human alive and teaching them some semblance of manners, even if they don't always get it?

Motherhood is too hard to do alone, but we isolate ourselves anyway.
That is ridiculous, and it makes me sad.
People need people. We were never meant to be alone.
Period.

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the end of [round two]

If there is anyone still left reading this, I'm sure you're wondering where the last five days or so of food logs went.
The short answer is that my whole30 turned into a whole25.
You can judge and shake your head and leave it there, if you'd like. However, if you want to moral of the whole thing, feel free to stay awhile.

Friday was Day 25.
We went into London to meet up with a dear friend of Hubs who was one of the groomsmen in our wedding. He had come to London on a business trip and changed his flight to stay an extra day just to hang out with us. So, so cool.
Now, I have my list of "go-to" places when I'm in London, and I am not for one second making excuses for myself when I tell you what I am about to tell you. What I am saying is that I am learning about balance and priorities.
We had Jameson with us for the day, and by the time he'd finished napping in said friend's hotel room, and we got ourselves out into the city, it was already late afternoon. None of us had really had anything much to eat since breakfast and we were walking everywhere and it was COLD.
Jameson was miserable, I was miserable, everyone was miserable.
Plans were to head to the Aquarium and find a place to eat around there--except that none of my "approved" places were really in the vicinity. So, by the time we got to Westminster and bought Aquarium tickets, it was 3:30, Jameson was screaming from frozen fingers and an empty belly and I realized that it would do more harm than good to drag everyone to a tube station just so I could order plain chicken and a salad. Which means that we walked into a pub, and I ordered a hamburger (an effort to find the thing best option) which ended up being one of those frozen-patties-of-something-awful, and I broke a whole30 on craptastic food.

But you know what?

I don't feel bad about it.

I'd spent the last three weeks controlling, controlling, controlling EVERYTHING that went into my mouth--giving myself anxiety about too many carbs, eating too late at night, should I snack on fruit, is my body still burning fat, etc. But when it came time to decide between myself and my family, there wasn't a choice. I had this brainwave of realization that there has to be an element of balance to everything we do. It was more important to get Jameson out of the cold and some sort of food into him than it was to stick to my rigid principles "just because". So I made a conscious choice to eat off-plan, and I was absolutely fine with it.
Was I sad? Yeah, a little, because I don't like not-finishing things.
But did I regret it? Nope. And that was kind of surprising.

If I'm honest, my one big concern was how everyone else was going to take it.
I'd gotten so many people on this Whole30 wagon that I didn't want to "fail" and have them all look at me and say, "Well, if she does it, we might as well do it too."
But part of this balance is realizing that I am not responsible for anyone else and their experience with this. It is not my job to worry and obsess over other people and their diet. Should I answer questions and be supportive and encouraging?
Yes. Absolutely.
Do I need to lie in bed at night, heart-pounding, and adrenaline rushing as I think about how this bad experience they're having is somehow my fault and I need to find a way to fix it?
No. No way.

I feel like it's also important to note that this was my second whole30--I've done this before, whole hog, for 30 days completely. So that also contributed to my "okay-ness" with cutting it short. I already know (because I finished the first one and did the reintroduction) that I don't handle dairy or gluten well, that grains leave me massively bloated, and that I have a sugar dragon bigger than Smaug if I'm not careful. So I wasn't losing out on that part of the experience--learning what is and isn't okay for my body, because I'd had that already.

This was a hard round, you guys. I came into it expecting so much more victory than I felt like I got.
But maybe that was the point.
It's possible to take a good thing and make it a less-good thing by obsessing and worrying over it so much, that it then becomes a monster eating up your life rather than something to complement and enhance your life.
I need balance.
I need to remember that making a less-healthy food choice does not make me a bad person or a failure.
I need to remember that there is no ideal for my body--because it's mine, and I'm the only one that really knows what healthy feels like inside of it.
I need to remember that everything is a choice and I can choose whatever I want--more healthy or less healthy--and be okay with those choices.
I need to be okay with the fact that sometimes I'm going to order a pizza and drink a soda and eat some really good ice cream because my husband had his wisdom teeth out that afternoon and I need to take a break from overthinking everything (read: what I did last night).
I need to be okay with then eating fairly strict Paleo after that and knowing that it's not because I made a less-healthy choice the night before, but because I know that it's going to make me feel better than that pizza did.

So, there's a lot here.
I'm still working through it all and processing.
I'm learning how to live in the tension between too-much and not-enough.
Sadly, I'm pretty sure that it's something I'm going to have to live in for the rest of my life. But the good news is that I've done it, I know I can do it, and I want to do it--more than I want to self-medicate with pie--and that is the important part.

Talk to me.
How was your whole30? If you haven't tried it--will you? If you have--are you done with the "paleo" bandwagon forever?

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Days 21, 22, &23 [round two]

Day 21
Meal 1: 2 eggs, 2 sausages, coffee w/creamer

Meal 2: Leftover garbage stir-fry, leftover chocolate chili w/spinach, 2 sweet potatoes w/almond butter and cinnamon

Snack: Apple w/almond butter

Meal 3: Zucchini stew, sweet potato w/almond butter, herbal tea

Day 22
Meal 1: 2 sausages, 2 eggs, coffee w/creamer

Meal 2: Pork chop, 2 eggs, 2 sweet potatoes w/almond butter

Snack: Apple w/almond butter

Meal 3: 3 sausages, 2 eggs, 2 bacon, 1 bell pepper

Day 23
Meal 1: 2 sausages, 2 eggs, 1 bell pepper, coffee w/creamer

Meal 2: 1 garlic-lemon chicken leg, 2 bacon, 3 sweet potatoes w/almond butter and coconut milk

Meal 3: Nando's 1/2 chicken, side salad w/balsamic & olive oil, berries w/coconut milk, 1 sweet potato

I'm a bottomless pit lately, guys.
I don't know what's up.

I feel kind of funky hormonally, like I don't know what's coming (you know...THAT time of the month. I'm sure you all wanted to know that). But seriously, it's like everything is all out of whack, and I know that it's probably got something to do with still breastfeeding Jameson, but it's annoying because I can't tell if I need to cut myself some slack or just man up and deal with things.

I'm realizing I do not eat enough vegetables and I need to be more intentional about it.
I'm one of those Groundhog day eaters--I can eat the same thing for breakfast and lunch with a bit of variety at dinner and be happy. I like what I like, I like my routine.
The problem is that my routine, as of late, has not had enough vegetables in it and this needs to change. Part of next week's prep is going to be me spending a ton of time chopping, peeling, and steaming vegetables to just have ready to throw in with a meal.

As always, I'm still concerned with how much I'm eating/snacking at night, but I feel like stressing out about it is just compounding everything and making it worse. So...I'm going to try to not freak out about it anymore. Yeah, I eat a lot of sweet potatoes. Yeah, sometimes berries and coconut milk tastes like dessert and I eat it because I want that. Yeah, my goal for this whole30 was to work on my emotional issues with food.
But. But but but.
This month has been emotional for a lot of reasons not relating to food and I still need to remember that this is a journey--I will never get to a "perfect" place in my eating habits. They're going to change and shift and flux depending on where I am and the circumstances I find myself in. And that's okay. Because it's not about the food, it's about me. It's about how I feel about myself and my body and that's what I need to work on, not whether or not eating a sweet potato at 9 p.m. is going to make me fat.

So, the goals for this last week of strictness?
--More vegetables. Prep containers of veggies to add on as a side to my meals to help fill myself up and get more nutrients in.
--More sleep. Bed by 10 p.m. or as close as I can get it. Not enough sleep throws my hormones out of whack and this doesn't help anyone.
--Three workouts. I need to start enjoying what my body is capable again and part of this is getting physically active. I've got time for three workouts this week. Done.

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day 19 [round two]

Day 19
Meal 1: 1 sausage, 2 eggs, coffee w/creamer

Meal 2: Leftover garbage stir-fry, 1 fried egg, 1 sweet potato

Snack: apple

Meal 3: 3 bowls zucchini stew, 1 frozen banana blended w/coconut milk & coconut butter

The sugar dragon was roaring in full-force today, and I decided that I just had to be lenient and cut myself some slack--so I did that whole "blend a frozen banana to make fake ice cream" thing and tried to let that be sufficient. It did actually taste really good, and I blended up two but only ate one, so at least I know I've got some form of willpower.

I was reading this article the other day about perfectionism and key traits of being a perfectionist, and it was scary just how much stood out. I mean, it's something that I joke about and use in job interviews ("Tell us about a weakness of yours...") but sometimes it can be so true that it's damaging. In fact, one of the main things that stood out to me was the paragraph where the author talked about how perfectionists always feel guilty about everything, because they're not measuring up in anything--cleaned the house but neglected your kid? Guilt.
Cooked dinner but left the kitchen a mess? Guilt.
Played with your kid but snapped at your husband? Guilt.
Following the whole30 rules but still have wicked cravings for pizza and five sweet potatoes a day? Guilt.

I've found that I have a hard time resting in the tension of being an imperfect person and saved by a perfect God. I don't know how to deal with this--it's too much for me. It doesn't fit into my exact, 90-degree-corners, square box that I like to organize and line things up in. It's messy and inexact and means that I have to be messing up in some area of my life at all times and I HATE THAT.
Romans 7 has been my heart cry for years, especially verses 24 and 25.:

"What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?  Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!"

Sometimes I forget that I serve a God who doesn't mind mess, and chaos, and disorder, as long as I am loving Him first. I forget that He doesn't sit there and look at the state of my house, and the contents of my meals, and the crafts I (don't) plan for my kid and judge me on my success in these areas. I forget that the only things that matters is what I do with this messy life and who I live it for--am I going to live in a perpetual state of guilt because there's crayon on my carpet and I just want to eat cheese? Or am I going to suck it up and get outside of myself and embrace this wide, beautiful world and tell them how much Jesus loves them in spite of their own mess?

God, I want it to be the latter. 

Help it to be the latter.  

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day 18 [round two]

Day 18
Meal 1: 2 sausages, 3 eggs, coffee w/creamer

Post-Wo: 1 fried egg

Meal 2: Garbage stir-fry, 1 fried egg, 1 sweet potato, apple

Meal 3: 3 fried chicken legs, brussel sprouts, 3/4 orange, herbal tea

Do you know what is a really craptastic thing to do to someone on a whole30?
Ask them to bake cookies that they have to roll out and stick their thumb in, but can't eat (or even lick their fingers from). Pure, unadulterated torture.

This round two has been hard, guys. Hard in a weird way. I feel like it's getting harder as it goes on, which is pretty much the opposite way it went the first time around. I'm annoyed. I don't get why I have to have such a twisted relationship with food, and even though I know that it's a symptom of a deeper, underlying issue having to do with perfection and thinking I won't ever measure up, it's exhausting to try and fight all the time.

It's strange because I feel like "following the rules" has gotten easier--I'm better at cooking, I know what ingredients to go for, I've got plenty of recipes and go-to meals, I can order for myself when we go out and not eat the rogue cheesecake sitting there--but I cannot get over the desire I have to eat 4 sweet potatoes at 10 p.m. and how much I have to analyze it.

Whatever.

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day 13 [round two]

Day 13
Meal 1: 1 1/2 sausages, 2 eggs, coffee w/creamer

Meal 2: Nando's mixed leaf salad w/plain chicken and olive oil/balsamic

Snack: 1 sweet potato

Meal 3: Leftover Tex-Mex carnitas salad, 1 bowl berries w/coconut milk

Snack: 2 apples w/too much almond butter.

Okay, the snacking and extra food is going overboard. I've got to get this under control.
I think maybe part of it is that I know that people are reading this and going through their first whole30, so I'm afraid that they'll look at these entries and be like, "Well she ate five sweet potatoes at midnight, so why can't I?" and then that makes me panic and eat more.

The issues with this are, obviously, I need to get over myself and let people just DO their whole30 without worrying if I'm influencing them negatively. And I need to get this emotional eating/snacking/cravings under control. I had this issue the first time around--the stress about the timing of my eating, how much I ate, what I ate, etc. (I like strict rules and guidelines, as if the whole30 rules aren't strict enough--I want times, and measured amounts, people! Heck, just give me a menu and tell me what to eat!) I posted about it on the forum and the response that stuck out to me the most was a wonderful person who said something like, "Stressing about this is going to take away a lot of the positive impacts that eating this way is trying to give you. Can you stop worrying about amounts and times, and just eat. good. food. for awhile?"

That felt so freeing, someone giving me permission to just eat and not worry about if I should or shouldn't eat something, whether I was going to have too many carbs from this or that, was this just a craving or was I really hungry (I mean, I felt pretty hungry!) But for some reason, when I decided I'd go for round two, I thought to myself, "Okay, now you have to deal with those emotional ties you have with food. No more 'free eating', this round is about getting your mind under control." Except that seems to have backfired, because I'm now even MORE anal retentive about what I'm putting in my mouth and when and it's causing stress and so I'm eating my stress. Awesome.

I don't know what the answer is yet. I can't say, "Yes, okay I'm going to eat what what I want when I want" because then I literally would be eating like four sweet potatoes a day, especially right before I went to bed. But I also can't keep trying to lock myself into this mental extreme because it's stressing me out and ruining everything I'm trying to accomplish.

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day 12 [round two]

Day 12
Meal 1: 1 1/2 sausages, 2 eggs, coffee w/creamer

Meal 2: Leftover zucchini stew, salad w/olive oil and balsamic, 1 sweet potato

Snack: Apple w/almond butter, grapes

Meal 3: Tex-Mex carnitas w/lettuce and tomatoes, 1/2 avocado, berries w/coconut milk, herbal tea, 1 sweet potato (about 1 1/2 hours after dinner)

Dudes. I'm hungry lately.
I'm kind of worried about all the food I'm consuming. I mean, I'm trying to deal with all of these mental food issues I've got going on and so sorting through whether something is a craving or not has become a beast. Especially with the sweet potatoes. They're still slaying me.

To be really honest, I'm kind of worried that I'm eating too much and I won't burn off any more excess fat that I've got hanging around. I KNOW that this is not why I'm doing the whole30, and I've lectured so many people about not focusing on the scale, but I guess when it's been a huge factor in your life for the past twenty years, it's not something you're going to overcome in three months of "eating awareness".
I am happier with the way I look, but not happy, full stop. And I know it shouldn't matter, and I should just appreciate how much work my body does for me and enjoy feeding it good food (which I do), but, alas. There is always a "but" waiting around.

Hubs has been manically running around trying to get things sorted for the move, but I feel like we're kind of in a weird time space right now--things are coming up quickly, but we're not quite at the point of packing everything up and living out of suitcases or sleeping on air mattresses. We still need the stuff in the kitchen to cook with and the couch to sit on, etc. I hate this tension--I wish we were just THERE already. In the meantime, I am trying to spend my time enjoying England and the place I'm at, because I know I'll miss it soon, and it will take me by surprise and I want to be prepared for that.

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days 5 & 6 [round two]

Day 5

Meal 1: 2 sausages, 2 eggs, coffee w/cm creamer

Snack: Black coffee, juice, apple

Meal 2: Chipotle salad w/carnitas, mild and hot sauce, guacamole

Snack: Black coffee and almonds

Meal 3: 4 Chicken legs, 1 sweet potato, roasted veggies

We went to London for most of the day yesterday, and as we were leaving I was not really nervous about staying compliant at all. I'd been to London on my last whole30 and managed to find plenty of food to eat, so why should this time be any more difficult?

Then I got there and remembered how much I love pastries, and coffee, and GOOD FOOD, and was kind of surprised by how much my brain wanted to rationalize eating something off plan:

"You've already done one whole30, why do you need to do another one?"

"You've been eating well for five days now, that's a good reset. Just enjoy your day in London and then go back on plan!"

The sabotage was quick and hard, and I had to actively work to remind myself that a) I was not the only one dealing with temptation b) I had inspired a ton of other people to start this journey and if I copped out on them, I would be letting them down and c) the REASON I looked so good in all of the clothes and things that I was trying on was because of "following the rules" and that feeling was worth more than any pastry. (Even though they looked amazing!)

Basically, I was really taken aback by how low my defenses were, and how much higher I needed them to be. I managed to make it through the day staying compliant, and I am really glad I did. I had a few snacks at different points because I felt hungrier than usual, and Hubs was eating candy from a special sweet shop and I knew I had to have something in my mouth, or I'd be reaching for the sour cola bottles. Overall, though, it was such a nice day out and I am so glad that I stuck to eating good food and at least pre-planned where I could eat in the city easily. 

Day 6
Meal 1: 2 sausages, 2 eggs, 1/4 sweet potato, coffee w/cm creamer

Meal 2: Garbage stir-fry, 1 avocado

Meal 3: 1 sausage, 3 eggs, sweet potato, butternut squash, herbal tea

Not a bad day. Jameson woke up in the middle of the night last night because his teeth were killing him, so Hubs and I were a lot more tired than usual.
Plus I hit a "kill ALL the things" time this evening, which was pleasant (not). Poor Hubs. Sorry I was so cranky, I didn't mean it!

Had a weird burning, stomach-ache after lunch today...wondering if it was from the chili in my stir-fry? However, I don't think I drank enough water today either, so it could have been that.

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so I'm talking about food. again.

Oh, wait, it's 11:24 am and I'm drinking the Diet Coke I swore I'd never drink again?
Yes. How the mighty have fallen.
(Also, I just figured out how to take pictures of myself straight from Blogger.
Expect more self-portraits stat.)

Peeps.

Riding your own bike is hard.

Even with staring at those pictures that I put up a few weeks ago, I seem to have fallen headfirst into a pile of sugary Christmas goodies, and even though I am totally owning the choice I made to eat half of the monkey bread pan ALL BY MYSELF, I am so ready to clean up my diet again.

When I read this post by Holly Would If She Could, I was like, "Yes, that is exactly how I feel." I had already been planning on doing a January Whole30, but it was really nice to read that I was not the only person that had gone a little bit bananas over the holidays.

I bought 'Well Fed' and have been scouring through it for recipes. I printed out a calendar for January and am currently planning out meals, and am getting ready to start some bone broth in my crock pot. We're hitting up the Farmer's Market tomorrow and Sunday is going to be about purging our cupboards.

Even though I'm kind of dreading the first week of it, I'm not scared that I won't finish it anymore, because I've already done it. Not to mention that I KNOW it's worth it now, because of the awesome results I had last time. Seriously, I'm looking at it now and am like, "I cannot believe how terrible I feel, and I cannot believe that this is how I used to feel ALL THE TIME. This is NOT NORMAL!"

In order to help myself through the first week of sugar-withdrawals and cries for cookies, here is a list of how crap-tastic I feel, so that I can remember how this will ALL GO AWAY by Jan. 31st:

Fatty-fat-fat: I am bloated to the max. And those skinny jeans that I bought and that were getting too big are now starting to feel a little too tight for my liking. And the jiggle...well, the jiggle is picking back up and I'm none too happy about it.

Soooo tired: I'm staying up later and later, and waking up in the middle of the night again, and I am STILL tired when I crawl out of bed in the morning. This is not cool. I used to feel awake right when I woke up and at 3 p.m. I was still going strong. I need that even energy back, especially because it feels like Jameson is siphoning it out from me and I can't handle running around after him when all I want to do is lay on the couch and eat. Boo.

Sugar-dragons: Mentally, I'm getting to that state again where I start to obsess over whether or not I should eat something, and then I eat it and feel guilty and sad and mad, and this is not a healthy relationship with food at all. I am tired of staring at donuts and mentally wrestling with myself, then talking myself into it and then being mad and wanting to just throw it all up. I want to get to a point where I enjoy food and I like eating it, but it doesn't control me. Where I know that it's there to nourish my body and make me healthier, but I don't sit around thinking about the chocolate in the cupboard for three hours and whether or not "just a small piece" is okay to eat.

Inner-workings: Let's just say that...things aren't being digested like they should and my insides aren't really being as efficient as possible. I'll spare you the details, but basically I miss having my guts do what they're supposed to.

Illness: Okay, so I got sick like three weeks ago, and then it sort of went away, and then it came back almost two weeks ago with a vengeance and after a round of antibiotics, I'm still sick. Now, I don't necessarily think that eating dirty made me sick, but I think that it's prolonged it since my body can't focus solely on fighting the illness when it's also attacking my stomach lining and intestines and trying to weed out all the grains I've been eating. Basically, I want to hear out of my right ear again and stop coughing up my lungs.

So that's it.
I kind of can't wait for January 1st, even though I am kind of dreading the detox phase.
It's time to get thing back together over here, and I'm looking forward to being a healthier person again. Plus, I'm adding in a regular strength training routine and I'm excited to see how that influences my physical results (muscles, anyone?)

Let me know if you're on-board with this and we can keep a log together...I post a lot on the Whole30 forums, but am thinking about keeping track of it on here this time around. Just so you all can witness how whiny I get when my chocolate is taken away. Ha.

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