Enough.

I’m a recovering perfectionist. I had/have my reasons for perfectionism. Its how I survived the chaotic and painful times in my life. "I cannot control them - but I sure as hell can control me. And I will do it perfectly. I will be so good that life will have to get better."

As a kid that presented in behavior. Grades, looks, performing and religion. These were ways I could feel in control and like I was somehow digging myself out of this horrible pit. I lived in 5 different homes with 5 different families. It wasn't the easiest situation for a kid. Scratch that - it was really really hard and really really painful. But with my little shovel of perfectionism I was going to dig myself out. 

Truth be told I was just getting deeper and deeper in the hole. It was like I picked up the unhealthy shovel my parents had bequeathed me and was carrying on their legacy. I was getting deeper and deeper in the hole. Further and further from the truth. 

I was working on the assumption that my worth was to be earned. That I was supposed to "hustle for my worth." 

Recovery began when I discovered - as if someone had finally turned on the lights - that my worth was not connected to any thing external. Accomplishment and hustling and performance and pleasing every gosh damn person on this Earth had absolutely NOTHING to do with my worth...my value. 

For years I would repeat the mantra...

"I'm valuable because I exist." "I am valuable because God created me."

Until I finally started to believe it.

Accomplishment and Hustling and Performance are fine if they make me happy or I enjoy them...but they won't prevent me pain or give me security or most importantly -They don't prove to anyone or myself or God that I am worth anything.

I have been feeling the weight and anxiety that go hand in hand with perfectionism lately. Maybe its the stress of Christmas time or that fact that I have completely reorganized my life in the last 3 months - sleep, work, time, self care...its all changed. But regardless of the why - it’s catching up to me. 


The committee has been loud lately. The committee is a term I use in therapy to describe that internal group of voices we all have that criticize, scare, or hold us back. Sometimes its the voices of people we know - coaches or friends or parents - and sometimes its just a team of harsh voices waiting to judge us (I imagine celebrities might hear the voices of US weekly and fashion critics...)



  The voices are telling me that I am wasting time, not accomplishing enough, what I am doing isn't good enough or doesn't really matter. 

In religious life, there is a teaching about not worshiping false idols, having no other "Gods" above the actual Father of us all. 

My false God of late is wrapped up in the idea of accomplishment. Somehow, if I can finish that check list (in the best and most efficient way - of course) then I will be ok - I will matter and be good. Cooking and cleaning and teaching my kids and loving Charlotte to perfection and being the best counselor/therapist/life coach/ healer on the Earth and losing that baby weight and do something important for the world and master French cooking (I’m not even kidding...I watched Julie and Julia the other day and that thought actually popped into my mind, "I think I should cook all 500 of Julia Child's recipes this year.”) and be a really tuned in- checked in friend, and give thoughtful and researched and gorgeously wrapped presents....

And even as I am writing this - the committee is saying, " You should be a better writer. If only you could write like _______________."

And it’s weighing me down. And creating what the committee always creates for me in my body - anxiety, indecisiveness, confusion and unbearable STRESS and PRESSURE. 

So. I am putting the shovel down.  No more digging. My young women’s lessons and Christmas gifts and house and body and baking and home making and career and EVERYTHING are just goanna have to be good enough. Everything is just goanna have to be good enough.

Because the truth is:

I am enough.

I am enough with or without a plate of perfect Christmas treats.

I am enough in a messy house.

I am enough in any size jeans

I am enough as a mother.

And for hell’s sake – I am enough if I don’t ever cook one of Julia Child’s recipes (although truth be told I do really want to make that Beef Bourguion )

And if any of you are feeling the (holiday, motherhood, life) pressure…you are enough too. You always have been and always will be.

Day 2 I don't remember

I love a challenge to write. Its so incredibly therapeutic for me. Can almost feel magical. Like discovering new parts of my brain - my heart...my soul. So in an effort to write more I am joining Ann Dee Ellis in a memoir writing experience. 

From her Day 2 prompt:

Day 2: "I don't remember". Today is opposite day! Same rules as last time. Write "I don't remember" at the top of your page. Eight minutes, no stopping, don't think about it too much--let yourself go and whatever shows up on the page shows up. No censoring or editing. If you end up with a list or go off topic, that's fine. 

I don’t remember.

Okay kids, this one is for you.

I know someone who just discovered their mom’s journals. Their mom isn’t here anymore and the journals were a life changing discovery…unearthing buried treasure.

I am sure I won’t die young or tragically. I will live forever and you’ll end up changing my diapers.

But on the off chance you ever need some advice from me and I am not around – this one is for you.

I do not remember what I wore to high school. Ever.

Well, that is not true. I have seen pictures and so I am pretty sure at some point there was a lot of white eye shadow, overalls and some unfortunate looking flare jeans worn. But this is not in my memory. It’s just in a picture.

 And I can honestly say I do not remember what anyone else wore. Not one person in 4 years of school – I do not remember what they wore.

But I do remember the things I didn’t do. I remember really wanting to move. To run cross-country or sing in a musical. I remember wanting to be seen and to push myself. But fear got in the way. I let fear stop me. And that is crystal clear in my memory.

I really like me now – and I did not really like me then. Then I felt very not enough

Kids – sweet, strong, hilarious, darling boys and girl of mine – do what you want. Listen to the whispers inside of you and do it.

Be bold and brave and live this life you waited so long to get to live. You will not regret that.

I promise you.

All my love.

Mom

A year of growing.

I've been thinking a lot about this last year. I really enjoy this time of year and...  And I am grateful that it no longer carries any of the perfectionism and comparisons resolutions carried for me in years past. Now, it just feels more like a celebration. "Whoa, look what we survived. Wow, I fixed that one". Or "Well, yeah...I'm still working on that one. Maybe in 2030 I can check that off my list."

2016 started off with a failed IVF.  IVF was hard. And I think it left both Shawn and I a little battle weary and exhausted. In retrospect IVF was like tilling the Earth. Especially in Arizona - that is hard work. Sorting and softening the soil so that seeds can grow there. It tore us up  - in the best way possible - so that we could plant some really important seeds. And I have been watching them grow and bear fruit lately. There is a softness and respect that was worth every hour of tilling and breaking up the "soil" of our relationship.

But seeds don't plant themselves and sometimes we need seeds that only others can give us. I had to learn to let seeds be planted. I'm prideful and independent and have a hard time allowing others to take care of me. On the outside that may sound like self reliance or some other positive thing. But the fruits of that are not always pretty.They are exhaustion and loneliness.  This year gave me a lot of opportunities to humble myself and I was amazed at all the beautiful gardeners in my life who showed up with sacks of seeds. Lynsey flying out in January with her seeds of love and laughter and healing. Sweet friends and a sister who held my hand and planted seeds of loyalty and protection in June as I worked though a tough personal situation. And that surgery in October - whew - it broke the ground up enough that I think I could live of those fruits for a very long time. I felt so so loved and tended to. And found myself once again learning to trust God -The Master Gardener - with my life.

Yesterday my time hop ( Facebook's way of reminding us what was happening in our lives in years past...) showed me the blog post I had written last year at this time when I learned that IVF had not worked. You can read that here. 
I forwarded it to Shawn with the message "Whoa, what a year..."
A part of his response to me was "I don't think I knew how to support you through that experience. I'm sorry. Not that I am hoping for a repeat but I feel so much better prepared to know how to love you through it."

I mean. Who is this man? And how do I raise my sons to be this kind of Father and Husband. I guess I let them have their own gardening experiences. The breaking of the Earth has always been and will always be hard. But that harvest is worth it.

I remember

I love a challenge to write. Its so incredibly therapeutic for me. Can almost feel magical. Like discovering new parts of my brain - my heart...my soul. So in an effort to write more I am joining Ann Dee Ellis in a memoir writing experience. 

From her Day 1 prompt:

Day 1: "I remember when". Set your timer for eight minutes. Go somewhere quiet and get out your writing utensils. Write "I remember when" at the top of your page and start writing. The rules are don't edit/censor yourself. Don't worry whether what you're writing is good or bad. Don't worry who might read it. Just write whatever comes into your head. Try not to think too much. If you get stuck, write "I remember when" again and try something new. Go the full eight minutes without stopping. If you want to keep going, great. If not, great. If you feel like it, comment about how it went. Happy writing!"

I remember. 

I remember my grandpa. His name was Robert. Everyone called him Bob. My grandma called him Robert Leroy on special occasions. Mostly when he tracked mud in the house or when he tickled her. 

I remember him working. He loved work. He would mow our lawn by lamplight after he had worked 18 hours. And then he would mow our neighbors lawn. Always. 

He would plant the most delicious garden and then ask the neighbors if he could plant one in their yards too. He prepped and planted and harvested the gardens for them - leaving them big baskets full of produce - he just wanted to do the work. 

I remember him coming home from a long day at work and sitting on a bench that he had welded, and watching my sister and I put on 'Broadway' performances in the backyard that he had grown, under spotlights that he had carefully hung for us. I can still hear the junebugs, feel the thick sticky air of the midwest and see my grandpa clapping as we pranced in Goodwill ballgowns and sang "Old Blue."

I remember him showing up two times when my heart was newly broken. Once after losing a baby and once after losing a marriage. He drove through the night together with my grandma. He would tinker with my car and change its oil while my body slept off the surgery or while my heart tried to beat again. 

I remember him dying shortly after I met Shawn. He would really love Shawn. 

And then I remember  my grandma crying the day Shawn and I were married - saying Grandpa was there too. 

A Lesson Learned in Homeschooling and Healing My Broken Heart

A Lesson Learned in Homeschooling and Healing My Broken Heart

Part 1. 

I have two incredible sons. And as their parent I think I know them deeply. Better than anyone else. Better than the authors of all the parenting books on the planet. And possibly even better than they know themselves. I have watched them and loved them and nurtured them for a long time. I have seen great talents that I don't think they are even aware lie deep within. I have seen weaknesses that threaten them.

And so as I have ventured upon homeschooling this last 12 months I have not created their educations identically. Because truth be told they’re not identical.

And as a mother, who loves these boys fiercely, knows them better than any other…the classes and experiences I choose for them are very different than the ones they would choose for themselves.

Ethan, who is bright and incredibly creative, who also lacks confidence, is terrified of speaking in front of new people and has a nervous personality gets a very different education from my precocious, outgoing son Tyler. And Tyler, who is dyslexic and endlessly curious gets a different education from Ethan.

Is this fair? Well, technically no. But I love them too much to be fair.

Ethan loves the pottery class and art classes I assign him to help his creativity grow. However, I am certain that the classes I signed him up for that require him to perform in front of audiences, the math assignments and the classes that push him so hard that he has to dig deeper than he ever has before in his life - well, I am sure that sometimes they make him pretty mad at me. He might even yell at me

"This is not fair." "Why doesn't Tyler have to take this class." "I hate this class. You are so mean."

If it were up to him he would coast completely unseen and under the radar. However, I want to give him opportunities to lead. He’s not always happy with me. And sometimes there are loud protestations and comparisons about the “unfairness” of their educations.

But the truth is, I can see some things he can't. I can see that on the other side of this he will know a strength he didn't even know he had. I can see that later as a man or missionary or father or employee or leader he will be grateful for the confidence he has. That he will grow into the man that I always saw in him.

If I let him fill his day with the classes he wants he would be temporarily happy. But stuck. And no closer to his destiny.

 Part 2. 

Some of you know and many of you do not - that I just finished a long four month grueling couple of rounds of IVF. I did some mental math and calculated that I have had 4 surgeries that require anastesia in the last 2 months. I have had a little over 60 blood draws, 20 ultrasounds, over 150 self administered injections and more creams, gels, patches, and pills than I can actually put a number on. And throughout it all there was hope. Hope of never having to do it again. Hope that it would work. Hope that I would get to give my children the thing they had been praying for. Hope that I would get to give Shawn his greatest desire. Hope for a miracle. And hope that the deep desire of my heart would finally happen. Hope for a sweet little baby to come to us.

And today my doctor called with my blood results. Negative.

But I already knew that. I knew a week and two days ago.  Ask me how I knew and I won't be able to tell you. It was just a feeling. I think I was being given time to mourn it by myself before I had to mourn it with everyone else. I am thankful for that.

The mourning part was not pretty. I am not going to sit here and paint a picture of me weeping softly in a white dress while I sit in a meadow and gaze into the horizon. 

Not sure why but that always seems to be the picture on the front of books about mourning.

 My mourning involved 3 days of sobbing. To the point that my eyes were swollen shut the next morning. It involved crying that sounded more like howling and pain so intense that it took my breath away. I am pretty sure the tears I shed were for about 10 years worth of infertility and loss. They were for the ectopic pregnancy that nearly took my life. They were for the day I watched my oldest son sob into his pillow when I told him I am sorry but I was actually no longer pregnant.

That kind of sad and pain is scary. So scary, in fact that most of my life, I stayed as far from it as I could. Shutting down my feelings. Moving on quickly and putting on a happy face. I have long since learned that on the other side of the pain - after I have allowed my heart to speak - after I have felt all that is in there - then I can feel God. I can finally feel Him and hear Him and be taught. After all the pain is the most incredible peace. 


It was a few days into this mourning and possible protestations of "This is unfair" 
that I had the thought 

"Andrea, it was never meant to be fair. I love you too much for that." 

Fair would temporarily make me happy. But stuck and no closer to my destiny. 

I like, Ethan, don't really understand this education. I really think the better plan would be for God to just give me what I want. However, I have long ago learned that God's plans for me are bigger and much more magnificent than any I could try to dream up for myself. 

Shawn is evidence of that. 

So for today I trust. Well, I try to trust. And I keep praying for miracles. 

Once upon a mushy face

I title this photo: 

" When Good Faces Go Wrong" 

Or

"This Is Your Face on Motherhood" 

Or

"If Andrea Were an Alien"

I could write these things all day.  

Once upon the ramblings of a tired lady

I'm tired. It just came on out of no where. I was fine all day at work and then I got home and wham - I'm a walking (well actually not walking more like melting slowly into my comfy couch) zombie.

But I wanted to share a few things and give an update.

#1
I have decided that I am done with trips. We just had two fabulous trips. Salt Lake City and a camping trip. They were wonderful and memories that will last a life time (or so I hope. That was my mantra as I dealt with grumpy kids "These are memories that will last a lifetime) were made. I would like to tell you all about it. The hikes and food and friends and conference and adventures but I am too tired. See this is what memories that last a lifetime do to me. They wipe me out to the point that I can't even write them down for posterity. So basically I will probably forget them within in a year.

Also being tired makes me grumpy.

#2
I had a really awesome insight at church yesterday. It was amazing and new learning for me and I really want to share it. But I am
1. Too tired
2. Still sorting and making sense of it all. I want to spend some time journaling and will share when I can...

But the part that I really want to hang onto - is that if I would have left early, or stayed home sick or a million other excuses that show up when I want to escape the crowds at church and go home to my quiet sanctuary of a house - I would have missed out on that moment. I have a job that I love - but that takes a lot from me. There is a cost for sitting in the depths of others pain and trials. And I spend a lot of time with people - giving them my full heart and full attention. So weekends and time off work I have become greedy with.  And this new temptation has shown up. I can be at home alone - in complete silence. No one else's energy. No one asking anything of me. I can read.  I can think. I can sort.

And I can choose that.  Awesome thing agency.
And I won't get punished.
I spent a lot of years running from the punishing God - just to find out He doesn't usually work that way. Ever.
But I can miss out. I could have missed out on that clear moment when I KNEW something so clear and true that it changed me. A little bolt of intelligence that would still be floating out there -who knows how long before that opportunity would have been available to me again.
Not sure if this is making any sense to anyone else - but yesterday I got it. I don't want to miss those little gifts.

There is something magical about being in the right place at the right time. And we all know based on my obsession with Harry Potter - that I LOVE magic.





PS. Thought I should just offer a moment of silence for the poor Mr. Tyler who is really not enjoying school these days. It breaks my heart. And I feel that this face he is making not only represents his feelings about going to school but mine about sending him as well. I think we should just quit school and lay on the couch and eat chocolate pudding all day. This could be the fatigue speaking.