tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89815333549582535012024-03-13T03:36:01.806-07:00An Artist. With Occasional Meltdowns.Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.comBlogger173125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-10564900075970762032019-10-02T20:52:00.001-07:002019-10-02T20:52:38.870-07:00Tea Cups And Tap Shoes <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We can work on fixing our struggles, and we can also turn them into art. I may have been doing this most of my adult life. My poem was written after having a rough couple of days and then cleaning glass tea cups of the table. My emotions went from sadness, to guilt at my sometimes extreme emotions, and then finally to ease. I held the dirty tea cups in my hands in the dark dinning room after everyone was asleep, and the weight of them in my hands reminded me that I was doing my best. Hell I was almost always trying to make magic from the chaos. </div>
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I think one of my in-laws mentioned the fact that I really like to use the word magic. It is true. Magic is the best word. The versions I like best of the word are, "any extraordinary or mystical influence" and "mysteriously enchanting." So of course when I saw a book called <i>Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear </i>by Elizabeth Gilbert, I knew I needed to read it. Now I don't really want to bore you with my own book review. Because lets face it almost every book is loved and hated by many. But what I do want to tell you is that this book helped me remember why I create. I think its good encouragement for anyone to read. But after reading this book I stopped thinking through things like if I will ever publish a book or how many people will read my poetry. I use to think that I was too scattered as an artist. I write, read, paint, photograph... pick a hobby right? But I have come to realize that painting is another outlet for me. It is one that I can go to when maybe I don't have the right words that day. My photography shows me so many little details that I love to write into my poetry. No art is a waste. </div>
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Lately I have been writing and working on photography and showing almost no one. I am completely off social media, with my only public sharing being this blog. And honestly like four people read my last post during its first week up. My viewings have slowly climbed (maybe it's the same aunt clicking for pictures of the kids?), but it has been freeing to not care. To write for me. To make art for me. To not worry about winning or losing but knowing that by making something I am winning. </div>
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This last weekend our family went to Arkansas. Having a break away from my normal life showed me a lot. For one, I sort of longed for time to write and read. The days were full with friends, but I realized that I write because I need to. My art forms are how I process life. Art for me brings magic. It soothes and helps me understand why things are they way they are. Not only did being away show me that I make art mostly for me, but that there is more to "me" than I give myself credit for. I went to my ten year college reunion, and while it was slightly nerve-raking, I was confident and myself. And people still liked me. With everything I have walked through with mental illness I have at times wondered if I was still the same Jeran that I have been in the past. I think I have learned and walked through too much to be exactly the same, but I am finding that my true self is still there. It felt like this weekend I let the walls down. I just tried to be me. I found out that being me was being someone who liked being with people. I liked catching up with friends. I liked their kids too. I carried my little journal in my purse and still thought a lot about people and my interactions with them. I think about people and watch people a lot. I think it's the writer's spirit. </div>
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In the hospital they use to use a phrase, "build a life worth living." When I was depressed and had been in the hospital three times, building a life worth living felt really far away. I felt like I had all the components: a loving husband, beautiful kids, a nice home, loving family, interests and passions... but I wasn't sure where I fit in all of it and how I could fit all the pieces together. To make my life. And not just a life but one that I was actively participating in. While I was in Arkansas though, I realized I had built it. Slowly over time with lots of work. Honestly I have always been building it. It is just that at times it looks clearer to me than others. This is a big reason that I love taking pictures. They can be so filled with emotion and bring so much beauty. When I look at photographs of my life I clearly see the beauty. </div>
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Depression is a complex illness. I can't explain a lot of it. But when I was finding myself and trying to rise again I had to paint. And it hurt to look at pictures. I wrote a couple of posts ago that I could not even post on here. I couldn't see all of my pictures and the beauty. Because the lie of depression was that I could no longer make that beauty. I knew my kids were still beautiful, but in the midst of depression I was holding everyone back. I made sadness and heartache. But the best thing was to push on. Even if it was making art by painting. It showed me I could still create. I was making beauty. And then I would see the kids imitating me and painting too. I make art because I have to.</div>
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As I drove back to the hotel after hanging with friends one night in Arkansas, it felt so evident that my happiness and life was waiting back in room 127 at the Hampton Inn. Life is exhausting and I fall short a lot of the time, but it will always have beauty. I say yes to tea cups and hiking and making art. I say yes to hand-me-down tap shoes that are loud. And yes to driving with my sister to see sunflowers. I build my life by writing and sharing it with the friends I keep stepping out to get closer to. I read stories and learn and change. I have even bought a couple of really cute sweaters for fall. </div>
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This post is about art and finding myself and building myself. It is about leaving and coming back. I wrote it to process and to document the journey. And I also wrote it because I really do love tea cups and tap shoes. </div>
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<br />Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-87662637123902149712019-09-08T20:56:00.000-07:002019-09-08T20:56:20.248-07:00My Folder of Happiness <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have a folder of happiness. When I go into my photo storage in Lightroom it is the one special place just for me. If there was a photo contest to find the best photo of happiness I'm sure the winner would be some baby with a big smile and an ice cream cone. But to me happiness is a hundred photos. I open up the folder and happiness is there in all those little squares forming one giant feeling. Some of the pictures have been taken with my nice camera, but a lot of the pictures are a bit blurry and foggy and probably taken with a beat up cell phone. The pictures with flaws are my favorites though. The idea must have come to me in a moment of positivity. Sometimes I say that there is more than one me. The positive and happy me is always trying to make life easier and hopefully set up to win for the sad me. That's the problem with a mood disorder. Its really really hard to see beyond the mood. So I am always trying to help myself learn.<br />
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The thing about happiness is that I'm sure most people think we all experience it pretty similarly. Happy is a feeling, and we all know what it feels like. But I think happiness is actually very different for everyone. My happiness is barefoot by a fire outside while reading poetry. It's sun kissed children with dirty hair. There are almost always flowers involved and adding something old or worn or delicate only adds to the delight. These aren't just the things that <i>make </i>me happy, they are part of happiness itself. I imagine all of these things swirling around inside of me, stirring up my own flavor of happiness.<br />
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One thing that individuals with borderline probably do not talk about enough is that because we tend to experience extreme emotions, that also includes happiness and joy. When struggling with a mental illness it can be easy to talk about how much pain can be felt or how hard it is to control our anger. But what I've noticed lately is that one of the very best parts about me is that I can probably experience happiness in a more intense way than a majority of people.<br />
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Today I started challenging myself to 2-3 pages of free writing, which I hope to do every day. I want to share what I wrote because I think it shows how everything is heightened in the very best way.<br />
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"I know my day is going to be happy when I open my bathroom drawer and the flowers on the paper lining the bottom start to dance. They greet me singing and purple, and as I put on my mascara I know whatever is responsible for the happiness in my brain is alive and working. Those busy little workers in my brain have had their morning coffee and have sworn to fight off the bad guys of lesser moods. As I move to folding the laundry even the small holes in clothing seem to be a friend. Instead of an absence of fabric or quality, the little hole tells me he is the sign of purpose and play. A life well lived. Worn clothing is nothing to be ashamed of. How our bodies move and sweat happiness underneath. The freshness of the sun and summer air, releasing the tightness of fabric. The sewn buttons finally free and able to jump. And as I move from room to room putting such happy clothes away, the tiny toys and messes turn into an eclectic dance of creativity. Proof of play. Opening and closing drawers as each is filled and the rhythm of laundry is completed. Accomplishment but also realizing that life is okay. Because when you're an artist who feels more colors than others a happy day is more of a poem. The ease of two glasses of wine but none actually poured. And surely I will come crashing down once again, but for now I am the butterfly that doesn't remember being a caterpillar."<br />
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And that was all before lunch.Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-63048046993387890952019-08-19T20:09:00.001-07:002019-08-19T20:09:41.647-07:00Not Who But What <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One of the nine symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder:</div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>“Unclear or shifting self-image.</b> When you have BPD, your sense of self is typically unstable. Sometimes you may feel good about yourself, but other times you hate yourself, or even view yourself as evil. You probably don’t have a clear idea of who you are or what you want in life. As a result, you may frequently change jobs, friends, lovers, religion, values, goals, or even sexual identity.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I remember one evening, I was in my outpatient therapy group when I looked at some of my paperwork more clearly during a session break. I had already been admitted to the hospital twice. The first time I was persuaded to self-admit so I could take a 600 question psycological test to help determine my diagnosis. My psychiatrist did not think I simply had depression. He was guessing something closer to bipolar. I spent a week in the hospital that August of 2018, and then I was admitted again in September to “help adjust my medication.” Once again I was okay with going to inpatient, because they told me they could increase my medication quicker in the hospital while keeping an eye on me. That night, as I looked closer at my papers from those times, I saw “Cluster B Traits” which I had been told about but was under the impression that it was a small symptom. But under that was Borderline Personality Disorder. Officially. I asked the therapist why that was written on my papers. No one had used those exact words with me before. She told me that she wasn’t the doctor and couldn’t answer those questions. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">During that week I had several evenings of anger during group therapy and unpredictable mood swings. I remember one night coming into group and before it started I told a few people I wanted to “walk into the psychiatrist’s office and flip his desk over.” Now looking back, I really have no idea why I felt that way. But one of those nights, which one I can’t remember, one of the doctors said he thought I should go back into the hospital. For the third time. I walked out of his office. I paced around outside for a bit and was met by one of the screening nurses. She asked me to come in to sit and talk a bit. Which I knew meant to be screened and admitted in again. I told her I needed to talk to the doctor. I went back to where his office was but the door was closed, and he was seeing another patient. While I sat in the chair outside waiting, the nurse came back and sat beside me. She told me that maybe I could come and talk to her for a bit, and then the doctor would be free. I knew what was happening, all of the sudden I was that patient they were worried was going to leave, and I need to be admitted. She was slightly tricking me. I knew the procedure well by now. After we talked she would call the head doctor and request for my admission. I wouldn’t be seeing the doctor I had walked out on. I followed her anyways. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The next morning after I was admitted, I had a couple of med students come in and talk with me before the head doctor came. I answered their questions, and once they were gone I started reading Harry Pottery again. While I was lost in the story, laying on my side facing the wall and under the covers, I heard my name. He said it slowly, a question, almost like I was a child and we were playing hide and go seek. Him being the adult and knowing where I was hiding. I startled. It felt strangely intimate to have the doctor standing there while I lay in bed. I’m not sure why it felt different than being in the hospital for a psychical illness, when doctors come in and out all of the time. Maybe it was because there wasn’t an IV or monitors, it was just me lying in bed reading like I was at home. He told me he had heard that I had seen the diagnosis for Borderline, and that I wasn’t happy about it. I remember saying apparently I couldn’t cry in that other doctor’s office. I showed emotion and then was admitted. But there was more going on than that. I remember sitting up in bed watching the doctor lean against the wall and tell me all these horrible symptoms of Borderline and painfully realizing I had several of them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Symptoms like “fear of abandonment” and “shaky sense of self” stuck in my throat. Didn’t everyone not really know who they were? Or maybe we were all on that same journey of finding ourselves. Wasn’t I still young enough to be figuring it out? All I really knew was that I thought I had been redefining myself. I had lost myself in motherhood and was figuring out what I liked again. I had been painting, hula hooping, and reading so many more books than I use to. But maybe I had been redefining myself for years. At the time though, these were just blips of thoughts, fragments of what could be or what was, I really was too confused to know.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Looking back to different stages of my life I can see certain signs of a shifting self image. I remember telling my therapist in college that I had all different groups of friends.They were even at extremes. I had my art friends, old friends, new friends, drinking friends, let's obey the rules friends. The fact was, I needed all of them. They made up all the pieces of me. I wasn’t liberal or conservative, a partier or a rule follower, an unpredictable free spirit or a faithful friend. I was everything. I was who I was with. I was them. Or as close to it as I could be. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I could go through the different times of my life and point things out, but the truth is that I am probably more of a <i>what </i>than a <i>who</i>. I am an adjective or verb not a noun. Others may not see me that way but it is how I view myself. I recreate myself all the time, and I often take on traits and hobbies of those around me. When I met Andrew, just a year before I had been in Europe and interested in fashion. I liked to wear what was in style and do my hair and make-up. But after dating Andrew for awhile, I slowly morphed. I stopped wearing make-up. I camped and hiked and bought the water bottles and sandals I had always made fun of earlier in college. I was “crunchy” yeah, that’s what I could be. One of the first things Andrew and I did together was dye v-necks, and I started wearing them all the time just like he did. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: helvetica;">I have been an art student, a charismatic Christian, a hiker, a homemaker, a southern baptist, a natural parent, a vegan, a poet, a homeschooler, a composter, a yogi, an Anglican, a painter, a reader, a runner, a writer. I do believe that these</span><i style="color: #262626; font-family: helvetica;"> were</i><span style="color: #262626; font-family: helvetica;"> interests, but in my mind they became <i>who I was.</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: helvetica;">Trying to write all this out has felt confusing to me. I'm trying to make an identity out of not having one, haha. I know there are whole parts of me, but maybe the truth behind it all is that there are many parts of myself that are always changing. I am more unsure of myself than I want people to know. Maybe a person doesn't have to have Borderline to be confused about who they are or who they want to be, but having an actual diagnosis that says something is off with my identity and ultimately my personality is a hard thing to accept. This is why I go to therapy, haha. I am trying to do more of the work of understanding myself so I <i>can </i>know more of who I am, for my own benefit and for those around me as well. </span></span></div>
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Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-66490382554779400222019-08-16T18:58:00.003-07:002019-08-16T19:35:53.751-07:00Holding So Many Pieces <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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*I originally wrote this post about my experience with mental illness in November of 2017. I wrote it all out and then couldn't publish it. I hadn't written anything on my blog in over six months at that point, and after writing this and not posting it, I stopped writing for almost two years. When I wrote this I thought I had walked through the hardest part. I had been diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder, and in my own thoughts had honestly had a complete breakdown. Maybe though it was just the beginning of mental illness. Here's what I wrote, and I believe is the first step for me to begin writing again, to post what I was afraid I couldn't.*<br />
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A couple weeks ago I moved one of the house plants to my bedside. I had thought the plant was beautiful when I first bought it, but it never grew like its sister plant I bought the same day. I was even shopping at the store I bought it from not long ago and saw a girl trying to return a dead version of it. So, I knew that this plant was going to require a bit more attention than the others. Maybe it was going through something. I figured my bedside was a good new home; the plant could hear my voice at night and in the morning, maybe we'd share dreams occasionally. If that sounds too earthy and bohemian, then maybe the extra sunlight from my large bedroom windows would be enough. That and the fact that two year old Foster loves to water the plants in my room. They all sit on a table low enough that he can reach them with the spray bottle. After a few weeks of giving this plant a bit of extra attention, today I saw new growth. Those delicate baby leaves, fragile but filled with hope. I like plants because I can pretty quickly see if I'm doing something wrong. Unlike humans, plants tell me pretty quickly if I'm doing a good job.<br />
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So I guess this one baby leaf gave me the hope of enough words to write publicly again. Maybe it has little to do with hope and more to do with inspiration. And the fact that we have internet again. I stopped writing online mostly because we stopped paying for internet for a few months. Thank you Google Fiber for your more affordable rates. So, thanks to baby leaves and Google Fiber, I'm back.<br />
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It has a been a bit surreal, having a nervous breakdown. I would say Wikipedia has a pretty good definition of the last five to six months of my life.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">"A </span><b style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">mental breakdown</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> (also known as a </span><b style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">nervous breakdown</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">) is an acute, time-limited </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mental_disorder" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Mental disorder">mental disorder</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> that manifests primarily as severe </span><a class="mw-redirect" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stress_(psychological)" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Stress (psychological)">stress</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">-induced </span><a class="mw-redirect" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clinical_depression" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Clinical depression">depression</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">, </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anxiety_disorder" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Anxiety disorder">anxiety</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">, or </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dissociation_(psychology)" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Dissociation (psychology)">dissociation</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> in a previously functional individual, to the extent that they are no longer able to function on a day-to-day basis until the disorder is resolved. A nervous breakdown is defined by its temporary nature, and often closely tied to psychological </span><a class="mw-redirect" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burnout_(psychology)" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Burnout (psychology)">burnout</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">, </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kar%C5%8Dshi" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Karōshi">severe overwork</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">, </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sleep_deprivation" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Sleep deprivation">sleep deprivation</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">, and similar </span><a class="mw-redirect" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stressors" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Stressors">stressors</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">, which may combine to temporarily overwhelm an individual with otherwise sound mental functions."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Its weird that Wikipedia could know my life so closely. And I'm not being dramatic. I sort of wish I was. I have had some well meaning people tell me or text me things like, "Some people take medicine, but I believe what you are dealing with is a spirit of fear" and "Yeah, there are lots of medications but ultimately you have to give it to God." Oh Lord, I think I may have a demon of anger or annoyance over fear. I don't mind people bringing God into life situations. Because I think God cares a lot about my life. But I don't appreciate God talk as the triumphant answer over medication. Almost exactly a year ago I asked a guest Priest at a retreat to heal me of depression and anxiety. And I think maybe God is healing me, with 60mg of Prozac a day. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">I guess thats kind of a high dose. Like my insurance needs prior authorization and won't cover three 20mg pills a day. But you know, I think I'm over the shame. Because there's no fucking shame when a person takes Amoxicilin. Why does an imbalance in the brain, temporarally or permanently, make people so nervous? Why does it suddenly involve spirits or demons and science cannot be the answer? I am not sure, maybe too many people have used antidepressants as a silver bullet. And I have learned and am walking a path that I understand its not the complete answer to all of my problems. But so far a higher dose has given me the ability to start learning how to manage and control my own emotions better. Learning how to walk through those lows that I have written about it the past. My medication is also helping control my anxiety enough so I can function. I don't owe it to the internet to explain all of what has happened, but make no mistake, the definition above saying, "unable to function on a day-to-day basis" was true for me. Andrew had a period of time where he didn't work for almost two weeks? I barely remember those days. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">I don't know why I'm sharing what I am. I got online to write about something and pictured it being symbolic or metaphorical but all I am doing is processing. Maybe I have to begin to claim it as my own story to heal myself. Maybe if I admit that I was that houseplant, barely hanging on, needing so much more sun and water and love then I was allowing myself to receive. Andrew and I saw the movie "Lady Bird" last night. Not about the First Lady, but a coming of age story that I loved. In the movie a nun is talking with the main character. She states that giving attention to something is basically loving that thing. Undivided attention shows love doesn't it? I thought of Andrew and the many times he has helped me plan my coming days hour by hour. Putting my pills in the right box each week. Knowing what I need before I need it, attention and love.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">So, maybe thats where I am. I wrote the title before I wrote this post. Which is maybe backwards. But I just have this picture of something beautiful and important breaking, and that at first I didn't even know where all the pieces were. And maybe I still don't have all the pieces, but I am holding a lot of them in my hands. I am still not sure what I was before I broke or what exactly I will be once I put all these pieces back together. But slowly, piece by piece and color by color, I am starting to remember. </span></span></span>Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-85575966572324687752017-04-25T20:50:00.000-07:002017-04-25T20:50:00.138-07:00Camping at South Llano River <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last week we headed west two and half hours to Junction, Texas to camp at South Llano River State Park. Our second month doing the family challenge to camp at a different state park each month this year. This trip was easier than the first; we came in knowing more of what it would be like to camp with three small children, and even brought a chair we could buckle Foster into. Letting a toddler be "free range" for three days is pretty exhausting, hence the chair. We brought lots of cold, sweet watermelon and other camping snacks so he didn't mind being sat down occasionally.<br />
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Honestly I think the pictures speak of almost all the highlights of the trip. We loved bird watching as a family and some of the best bird shots (especially these last two) were Andrew using my camera. We both enjoying capturing more nature this time around. Andrew said we were still growing to be like one another as I asked for time alone in the bird blind to take some pictures, and he went tubbing down the river with Blanche. Normally I am the one in the water and he likes to sit and observe. Either way it was a nice change to give each other time to do special things while there. We had a fire going both nights and Andrew and I looked at the stars and talked and by the end of the trip I wasn't even afraid of raccoons that much anymore. Colorado Bend really had a large amount of hissing raccoons. Thankfully this time we did walk in camping and were more isolated. We hung up our food and tied down our cooler and old Rocky the raccoon pretty much left us alone.<br />
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There was hiking and swimming and marshmallow roasting. Blanche loves the water, but was a bit more whiney this time about "being the only one not carried." But I'm hopeful she will get back into the love of hiking. I thank God that one night as I was putting the younger two to bed I decided to check for ticks. I looked very closely and found one on Rosemary's head. That was the worse part of the trip. She was so scared and couldn't be convinced that it wouldn't hurt to take it out. It was close to bed time and we just told her we had to hold her down and do it if she wouldn't lay still on her own. She was shaking and crying but thank God we got it out and she was fine afterwards. Its always hard as a parent to feel mean for a few moments, when you know you are doing the best thing for your child.<br />
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We saw a jackrabbit jump through our campsite one morning, a little bunny one evening, and so many birds, some which are even endangered. The love of nature and protecting it is growing into our family culture and it makes the work of the trips worth it. Camping forces us to disconnect from the busy world a bit and connects us to one another and the nature around us. I think its easy in our big and strong homes to feel like we have this world under control, that we are alone in some ways as living creatures. But when you spend a few nights in the wild its pretty apparent that we are one part of a large and beautiful creation. During the day hundreds of lizards ran up and down the sidewalks and over the trails, hiding in the tall grass. The fire ants were busy at work, making their tunnels underground and flattening the earth into a large round circle of hustle. The birds sang as the sun set and the ants and lizards went to sleep. Then came the stirring of grass and trees in the shadows, a spookiness coming alive with a million stars.<br />
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Even in my most struggling moments, when I can't seem to put into words what it is that I believe about the world and God, I always have found God in nature. I see the grandness of the stars all the way to the finest detail of a bee inside a flower and know how foolish I would be if I thought I was the one in charge. God has always used nature to speak to me, to show me that he too is an artist. Nature shows me that God and Jesus and the gospel is an earthy thing. Jesus came at a time that he was outside and walking, hiking even, with his closets friends most days. After camping for a couple days, covered by the dust blown by the wind, I feel a little closer to Christ. Maybe it all sounds far stretching but sometimes removing my own control, even of the most basic act, like rinsing in the river over the shower, can show me truth. I can never hike along wildflowers and through fields and tall trees and not thank God for a beautiful creation. It is so stunning. And the thing is, He didn't have to make it this way, but he did.<br />
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The week before we camped was Holy week. It was a week that started by waving palm branches in the air for the coming of Christ. Followed by my own priest washing and kissing my feet as Christ himself did to his disciples. And then on good Friday I stood with a rose in my hand and walked what felt like an eternity to a cross, where Jesus was wrapped in black, facing death for my own sin. I had never had the weight of my own brokenness hit me so hard. I often think to my moments of weakness, the times when I am angry and bitter and hateful. And even with Christ I still have those moments. And honestly the moments of good and love and any sort of character come from God himself, teaching me and molding me. And yet, when I was yet still a sinner, Christ died for me. That truth made me want to collapse onto the floor at the foot of the cross. I laid my rose at the foot of the cross and had to take a few minutes to collect myself. All that I am is from him. Then Sunday came the largest celebration. All of the kids ringing large white bells, the entire sanctuary feeling covered in white and flowers. Christ has risen. Food and friends and celebrating the love of Christ. And then, almost like with an old friend, we drove out west. We went into the wilderness. The wild creation not in contrast to the decorated church but the very depth of the church itself. Feeling similar to where it all began when God placed humanity first in the garden. Nature shows me that while we are fallen, the story isn't over. It can't be. There is sadness but also so much beauty.<br />
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So, we will keep camping. We will keep working hard to set up tents and herd our children in the wild. I have come back feeling so thankful for all that is around me. It is a privileged life to have time to spend apart from the busyness of work and the daily to dos. My hope is that these trips continue to be a growing and rejuvenating time for our family.Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-7703333045202268142017-03-26T22:30:00.002-07:002017-03-26T22:30:34.903-07:00Camping at Colorado Bend <br />
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For the past couple of years Andrew has given himself a new goal on his birthday for his next year. It has been things like trying a new beer or wine every time he drank and setting out to learn Spanish. This year as his birthday approached we were sitting on the couch watching an indie moving about a guy hiking. It was almost painfully slow, but the shots were beautiful so we just sat there tired watching beautiful scenes.<br />
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"You know, I think I want to go to a different Texas State Park each month as my goal for the next year, " he said all of the sudden.<br />
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"Yeah? That'd be awesome." I replied pretty quickly.<br />
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I'm all about the adventures and ideas of greatness. To better ourselves and expand our horizons. That's normally until my horizons are actually being expanded... like walking into the dark alone and hearing raccoons and trying to run to that gross composting toilet. Or my period waiting to be a week late, exactly on time for our camping trip were there aren't any showers. These types of stretching myself aren't what I was thinking about when we were sitting on the couch dreaming about Andrew's new goal. But, now that things are said and done, the pictures show it was romantic enough.<br />
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We drove a little over two hours from Austin to Colorado Bend State Park. Our first time camping as a family. Andrew's first time to even drive up camp, because he has always backpacked and done primitive camping. The park felt huge and quiet and slow as we drove in, winding along the roads at barely twenty miles an hour. We had the windows down on our van and could feel the dusty air as we watched cactus and shrubby trees go by. As soon as we were there Foster needed his diaper changed and the girls headed to the bathroom with Andrew. I changed Foster in the van while he cried thinking he was missing something grand, only to hear the girls coming back a bit fussy themselves, not wanting to use the weird composting potty.<br />
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I shouted across the beautiful wild land, "I brought the pink potty remember? It will all be okay!"<br />
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We went into the park rangers office and Blanche immediately became best friends with the middle aged woman who was the ranger. Blanche has told me before that park rangers "save the world." The ranger asked if we wanted a campsite close to a potty, which I basically shouted yes for my own sake.<br />
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The next couple of hours were spent unpacking the tent and eating lunch at our camp site. For some reason whenever I come into a new wild space, I'm always a lot more cautious than my children. They seem to run in different directions, into tall grass and down steep hills, all while I keep saying again and again, "Okay, well wait a minute. Be careful." The full and moving Colorado River was just down the hill from our campsite and all around the area was brush and trees and what looked like a semi hidden tunnel system for raccoons. There were so many parts of our new world that felt untouched by man, which made me a little nervous.<br />
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After what felt like quite some time we all had on swimsuits and had snacks packed. After asking Blanche's park ranger friend, we drove down to a trail head to start our hike to find good swimming. We hiked a few minutes, past a couple of men fishing, the trail bright and sunny and flat. Foster had already fallen asleep on my back in the Ergo, and Rosemary was saying she was tired. We then bumped into some older women who had been hiking. They congratulated us on our victory of camping and being in nature with small children, and told us the swimming hole with several bikini clad beauties was the best one to swim in. When we turned the corner to the pool, a small waterfall or little rapids filled the pool. The trail crossed right through the water which was very slippery. After making it to other side, Blanche and I were the brave ones that got right in, the water freezing and clear and green. The sun felt so bright for March. The pool was at least nine or ten feet deep and Blanche kicked like a little puppy with her floaties. We swam and hiked and Blanche slid on her bottom down the small little waterfall, just like Mowgli in the Jungle book. One time on her way down the small fall, she went face first. She was holding on and kind of yelling so I made my way to her. I sat there and helped her onto her bottom. I let the water bang against me. There is something about sun and water and wind, it can just whip you around and wear you out in all the best ways.<br />
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Eventually it was time to go make dinner and enter our first night of camping. That night the kids were so tired by seven thirty, but it wasn't dark yet and the tent was still hot. I felt embarrassed at their hollowing. Well, mostly Rosemary, saying she was scared. I couldn't tell if she really was or if she just heard Blanche say it. I kept thinking that everyone could hear our wild little tent, and the kids a few spots down seemed so much more calm. Foster was nursing and then sat up and blew raspberries on my stomach. Andrew asked if I could get him to settle down, but that's what Foster always does, he just nurses and rolls around like a little puppy or kitten until he is tired. Finally he went to sleep though, sweaty and dirty and lying on top of the sleeping bag. The girls kept going on about what the tent would be like, were they anxious or tired or scared. By that point it was dark and I asked all the sudden, " Do you want to look at the stars?"<br />
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The depth of the night stars is so thick in the wild. Layer upon layer of stars and dust and magic, nothing like you could ever see in the city. We all looked up in awe, suddenly happy and better with fresh night air and glitter in the sky above us.<br />
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The girls went to bed just before Andrew and I did, but then as we lay there drifting in and out Andrew heard a noise. One thing that is so different about camping verses normal life with Andrew is that he is very aware in the wild. At home I have had him help me in the night and he will have no memory of it the next day. I have to become almost verbally abuse for him to respond in the night. He always acts innocent and doesn't know I've said the same thing thirty times. But this night, out in the wild, he jumps up at a thud, "What was that?" He unzips the tent and I hear him yelling "Scram! Get!" Rocky the park raccoon had opened up a green tub of ours and found the girl's marshmallows. I spent the next hour listening while Andrew got up and down to load more things into the van. Apparently raccoons like marshmallows and hand sanitizer and basically anything you leave out of the car.<br />
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The next morning Blanche thought it was hilarious that Rocky ate the marshmallows. She told some girls camping down the hill from us the story and they gave us their own marshmallows as they packed up camp. Both Blanche and Rosemary started warming up to the idea of camping and the community around it. Our second day was spent hiking to a beautiful waterfall that became a very steep trail at times. We met lots of great people and the wind blew and blew. We hiked until everyone was almost crying, and then had popsicles from the park store.<br />
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We were getting use to the idea of camping. Of cooking and cleaning with small amounts of water. I drew in my nature journal the tree the kids kept running around. When we first arrived at our campsite I told the kids not to go behind the tree, because the hill became steep there, and it was brushy and wild and untame. By the end of the first day I had said never mind, as they ran around and around the tree during their new made up game. Even Foster, could slowly make the circle. It would get a bit steep behind the tree and it always took him a couple seconds longer than I would think for him to reappear. But then, just as I was about to be getting up to go help, there he would come up that small little hill. That next morning as I washed breakfast dishes with the water dripping from a bag on that old tree, I looked down and saw an armadillo and its baby. I yelled, "A opossum!" because I was excited and couldn't remember anything. The day before, after hiking to the waterfall and ice-cream we hung hammocks. That tree had a green hammock hung on it and I nursed Foster while he lay beside me in it in his diaper. We talked and he nursed and the wind blew really strong. Andrew came around the corner with my dinner and said, "Here you go lovers."<br />
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The second night was a lot like the first, raccoons hissing and maybe throwing up junk food in the woods while we tried to sleep. The kids slept so deeply after so much fun. We had hiked or played or walked to see deer, we had been moving all day. I laid there still in the tent. It was so quiet. And then, like a raging sea I would hear the mighty wind blow through hundreds of trees on those big mountain like hills, and then over the river and up the hill, finally making it to our tent, flapping like mad. The wind made me feel so small. Like one little baby tree. I kept waking and turning and scooting the little ones closer to me, in awe of sleeping in the wild, but ready for morning. Every morning felt a bit like a reward for making it through the night.<br />
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As I look back on our stories and pictures I just want to go back. I want to do the hard and the easy all over again. To get good at setting up and tearing down a campsite. To walk and hike with my kids and just enjoy them. To let the water and wind and sun wear me down and remind me how small I really am. There is something about camping that makes me feel a bit more human. Dirty and barefoot and sitting in the wild, remembering where I came from and seeing so much of the beauty that I had forgotten.Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-200133129389568172017-03-11T10:46:00.002-08:002017-03-11T11:01:08.355-08:00Balancing Act <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm not too sure when my life started to feel like a series of highs and lows. I think back to life before I had kids, and it seems like I was just a kid myself, in college, trying to figure out the world and who I was in it. I was telling my counselor this last week that when I think back to college I remember being emotional, just as I am now, but having a lot more time to ride the "lows." Low does not always mean negative. To me a low can be a time of great introspection, maybe sadness, and heaviness as well. I can remember being in elementary school and writing in a coloring book things that made me sad or confused, and then scribbling it all out with purple crayon. In college I would take a couple of days to ride the low, to write a lot, rearrange my room, work on an art project. Maybe it was actually the lows that allowed me to gear up for a "high" which are my times of great energy and excitement... full days, a happy heart, ready to take on the world with all my ideas.<br />
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As motherhood has continued my lows often look like just exhaustion, and the feeling of never really being able to leave the chaos. There is no time for days of pondering and writing. The children still need to be fed, bathed, loved and put to sleep. My mind often spins trying to process what I haven't had the chance to yet. If I get a full night sleep, I burst into energy, determined to accomplish my dreams that exhaustion has put a hold to.<br />
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Balance. That's the new goal. It has always been a goal for me. To just live my life in a fairly normal day to day fashion. This last week while sitting at a local cafe I ask my counselor, "Is it normal? Am I normal? These highs and lows? Am I just an emotional person?" Not that I really know if there is a normal I would want to strive for. But maybe, I need more guidance than I think. Her response was what it has been all along. I just have higher highs and lower lows. So the change and waves of up and down are much more noticeable compared to other people sometimes. Honestly I have always gotten a strange energy from the emotional rollercoaster that I ride. I wouldn't say that I am chasing the highs and lows, but more so that riding them births the ideas and passions inside. For me, (being 90% feeling on Myers Briggs) it's not so much about the emotional ride, but I honestly live a lot of my life out of emotion. I just can't help it.<br />
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But, I am coming to see that emotions, with highs and lows and then lack of sleep and small children can lead to a lot of unhappiness. Exhaustion, physically and mentally, which makes the lowers days really low. I've never really been close enough friends during motherhood with someone so similar to myself, or maybe I have and I just don't see it. I'd like to see those mothers though, how they balance the high energy days with the exhausted ones. I often write with the hope that my story is a small part of someone else's story, and that maybe through truth and vulnerability, connection and understanding becomes a part of both of our stories. To be a human is rough. I always feel so proud and sure until I realize I've been wrong about almost everything.<br />
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Talking with my counselor is my way of verbally unloading on someone and not feeling bad about it. Then I listen to her good ideas and figure out if I could do any of them. The last couple of days I have had the girls start their new "quiet time." It is basically a new and improved, more intentional way of keeping them quiet while Foster is napping. Instead of flipping on the tv and trying to clean and make coffee while they request snacks, each girl has a quiet time basket with little activities and books that only comes down for an hour or so each day. Rosemary sits on the couch, Blanche is in her room, Foster sleeps in my bed, and yesterday I drank my coffee in the sunshine. My first step to balance. Balance is really just being intentional about what I will need before I need it. Which I have never been good at. I am practicing the art of resting <i>before </i>I am exhausted. You know, to maybe prevent that low from dipping down so deep.<br />
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I would love to keep the highs. The other day while visiting my friend who just had a new baby, she looked up at me while holding the little baby on her chest and said with tired eyes, "You are like the Jack Russell Terrier of humans." It made me laugh so hard. I don't feel<i> that </i>high energy, but maybe I am on a good day. I hope that my highs morph into productivity and creativity as my kids grow and I am use to a good night sleep.<br />
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I find as I leave the "pregnant or new baby" stage I have been in for five years, that more balance is slowly coming. I have taken pride in the fact that small piles of toys and clothes are bothering me less and less. I am trying to use the days I feel rested to accomplish the extra work that needs to be done, but to be okay with a house that looks like it is lived in. I want Andrew and I to keep living out the passions and dreams we have for our life. I want to connect with nature and to raise my kids in it, but know that if we all hike three miles one day, we will probably need to rest the next.<br />
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Yesterday I took the kids to Free Forest School for the first time this year, and today as the rain pours down we've done our best to take the morning slow at home and work on our school a bit. The house feels like a mess and our quiet hour hasn't been perfect, but I am striving to find moments of stillness and rest, even with three small children. Connection and peace can come from times of rest, and we can build up energy for our higher energy days, where we are out hiking or swimming in the creek. For quite awhile it has felt like we have been in the process of moving or having a baby, but as we move out of survival state little by little, I keep hoping we find our rhythm and balance. To be swimming strong and not just barely have our heads above the water, or at least know what it means to rest in God and find ourselves loving those around us as ourselves.<br />
<br />Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-89776705317514627112017-02-25T13:54:00.000-08:002017-02-25T13:54:41.650-08:00Rosemary Turns Three<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"<br />
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I was lying in Blanche's bed last night as Rosemary peeked her head around and asked me that question. I laughed and smiled. She often surprises me with her smart little phrases, either heard by Blanche or put together more easily because of her. Blanche has always been my milestone of motherhood. She represents how long I have been nursing, co-sleeping, waking in the nights with someone. Rosemary is the middle child, she grows fast and slow. I can't believe she was only 19 months when I brought Foster home, and now she is only three? I keep thinking I will start homeschool with Blanche and then only a few months later Rosemary will follow. But in fact, there are three more years left for Rosemary to start school. Andrew and I will look at her, however mature we've made her in our minds, and now often see this little girl, with longer hair and stretching limbs, and think, "where did the baby go?"<br />
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If there was a phrase I could use to describe the third year of life, it would be "growing pains." Three year olds are not babies, not even close. They are almost out of toddlerhood, and soon to be a preschooler. Rosemary can do almost everything Blanche can do at five, but just not as good. I'm sure that's frustrating. Rosemary rides her bike at the park, but not quite as fast as Blanche. She can get dressed on her own, but is sometimes too tired to attempt it. I am trying to be aware of this, and to praise Rosemary for her drawings and attempts at writing letters, because two years ago when Blanche did these things we would go on and on about her brilliance. It's hard being the middle child, but I want Rosemary to be celebrated for her growth just the same.<br />
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The longer I am a mother and can study my children each day, I see how different they are from each other and that they are truly people with their own personality. Rosemary is a bit more quiet and introverted than Blanche (most are). She loves to dress up and change clothes. Lately her go to food is banana bread. She'd prefer for there to always be a fresh loaf around the kitchen. She is very verbal and always has been. I cannot believe how well she can explain herself at times.<br />
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Often times I love to tell her about when she was a baby and I wore her in the sling. That soft, linen baby blue sling. She was happiest as a baby just snug on my hip or back, wrapped up like a little gift. Three years ago this January I gave birth to my most laid back baby, an observer from the start. I'm excited to watch her grow and learn, to see who she chooses to grow into. Just today at the table she drew a circle and two lines in a very close attempt at the letter "R" for Rosemary. She has started making sure to kiss me on the lips and seems to want my attention more. Three is an awaking of a little soul, from baby to child. It reminds me that life could never be all highs, that the sweetness of life and growth takes work and sometimes tears. I love you Rosemary Joyce Nycum. I am so happy you are three.<br />
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<br />Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-35807401671967191332017-02-20T19:59:00.002-08:002017-02-20T19:59:17.184-08:00Dreaming a Step at a Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've often told myself in the midst of motherhood that life just happens one step at a time. My whole life I have been all in or not at all. My mom tells me growing up I would want to do something perfect or simply give up and state I wasn't doing it. I have come to realize I can't really give up on motherhood. Or being an adult. I can't just go back to being in college. Here I am, a mother, thirty years old, three kids, my husband goes to work every day to provide for our family. I am a grown up.<br />
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As a child I must have had similar visions of perfectionism or ideal dreams. Becoming a mother though was when it hit me the hardest that life might not be a dream. As a dreamer, its been a hard place to know where to stand, between dreams and reality. My last post I wrote about dreaming and making time for it. And now, a month later I would still say not only that it is important to make time for it, but that it is important to dream out loud, to be vulnerable in our dreaming.<br />
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Over the last month or two Andrew and I started talking about the idea of a tiny home. A small house, on wheels. We did research, looked at hundreds of tiny homes and their inner layouts online. I watched a youtube video about compost toilets. It felt like things were getting pretty serious. Andrew and I even drove out to a tiny home community, toured 7 or 8 tiny homes, and looked into financing one. A long story short, we just don't have the capital for a tiny home right now. Loans are different for homes on wheels, and though it would save us money in the long run, now is not going to be the time that we purchase one.<br />
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That doesn't mean Andrew and I hadn't already taped the width of a tiny home out in our living room, and tried to squeeze our couch in the corner of that blue tape. We downsized our wardrobes to less than 10 hanging things each, and two baskets each, which could go by a bed in a loft. This sounds way ahead of ourselves. The fact that we did all this before even knowing if we could afford it. We gave away half of our dishes. It sounds a little irresponsible, right? But I'm coming to see that this is why I married Andrew. This is why I love us. Because we are willing to dream. And to be vulnerable in our dreams. Ultimately, I was never scared of giving away too much. Because now that we aren't moving into a tiny home, we still have reduced our "stuff" way more than even multiple levels of working through minimalism. When we actually stopped and asked through mental exercises, "what is important? what do I need? what do I want?" Things became more clear.<br />
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Another aspect of tiny home living is that you really do a great deal of living outside. So, I started thinking and dreaming through this. Which resulted in hanging my laundry on the line again, and remembering the great resource of even a small backyard. Maybe its not the dream itself but the dreaming that produces a refined person. Maybe my dreaming could result in practical changes in my life. For much of motherhood I have told myself that dreaming was a waste of time. But then again Andrew and I moved to Austin on a dream. I've had my babies on dreams. The young dream, but so often as we age the dreams tend to become less and less. Or maybe they start to look different. More like counting down the days until retirement.<br />
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Step by step. Living in the real world, step by step. It is funny though, because as I have tried to grow myself into an adult, and I chant those words, "step by step" in my mind while I do the dishes, I also hear those same words when dreaming about something new. As my journey in minimalism has continued to not only owning less, but wasting less, I started to become interested in composting. I checked out a couple of books for city composting, and Andrew built containers out of free reclaimed wood he got at work. Andrew and I are both proud of those huge compost bins. One of them is completely full and when I rake the top it starts steaming. All of our green and brown matter is turning into dirt. Instead of methane I might add. Food scraps sealed in a trash bag sitting in the dump (not actually decomposing) make toxic gases, but with a bit of reading, building and dreaming... I can just turn our waste back into dirt.<br />
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I look through the pictures above and I see that dreams can simply be a positive attitude. Maybe this all sounds too ridiculous, but I am starting to see that dreaming, thankfulness, and a positive spirit can be life changing. When we first looked at our duplex the place was less than dreamy. There was a real ferret in a cage in the living room. The place had dark curtains and there was hardly any sun peeking through the windows. I remember after tripping through the over crowded two bedroom place, Andrew and I sat talking in the park in the neighborhood. "I feel like that place is a little dirty and crowded, but we could make it our own," I told him. And we did. I made sure the carpet was being ripped out, and we hung sheer curtains to let the light in. It hasn't been perfect, but it's our home. A beautiful place that Blanche claims she never wants to leave. Andrew has cleaned out and planted a butterfly garden out front. We have flowers that will be blooming and milkweed and greggs mist. Our backyard floods when it rains, but it lets our kids play in the mud. Dreaming is about seeing the beauty around me. Seeing things for what it could be. Wondering what life could be.<br />
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*Disclaimer, I do realize it looks like we just live in a mud pit. I think Blanche would be happiest this way... but we had to remove some tarps when building the compost. We have plans after the spring rain to lay down fresh wood chips in our backyard, since it does flood when it rains.Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-48051372430624264022017-01-17T15:05:00.001-08:002017-01-17T15:05:06.188-08:00There's Enough Time to Dream <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm currently sitting at the computer in my room in the dark, trying to remain calm and still while I type so that maybe the stirring baby on my bed won't see me. Its like he is the dinosaur and if I act enough like part of my environment, he won't even see me. Just kidding, he is walking this way. Now that he is almost eighteen months, sliding off the bed and walking over to the computer, crawling on my lap to nurse, its no big deal. There aren't any tears but I still have a slight suspicion he must know when I am about to try and write. But I've got a warm cup of coffee, its raining outside, and the girls are watching a show while I type away nursing a baby. This feels calm.<br />
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After a year and half <a href="http://storytimewithjerbear.blogspot.com/search/label/postpartum%20depression">of working through postpartum depression,</a> things feel calm. I label the last year or more as postpartum depression, but maybe its was a season of struggling with that at times, but also just climbing out of a very hard season of life. I am realizing now that I had gotten use to chaos. Good chaos, for the most part. But in the three and half years we've been in Austin, up until this last lease, we had moved every year and had a baby in 2014 and 2015. But now things are slowing down. Andrew just got the position at the Whole Foods literally 2.2 miles from our house, we have re-signed our lease, and I'm actually not pregnant. Not that having babies is a bad thing. I am so glad that Andrew and I dove head first into life. I am happy and grateful for three beautiful siblings all only a couple years apart that will play and learn together as they grow. I would not want it any other way. However, as things have started slowing down, and the calm is returning, my brain is finding that I have more time to think about things. My brain has time to ponder more than where the next baby's things will go, or when my next doctor appointment will be. I am no longer breastfeeding around the clock or wearing a fussy baby to sleep. No, I almost have two toddlers and a preschooler now. Or maybe one toddler and two preschoolers? Either way they are growing fast and the baby days seem to be slipping away. And as those times leave me, I find myself giving away cloth diapers and checking out books from the library about composting. Moving forward in new ways.<br />
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Andrew has a bike fixed up and ready to start commuting to his new job as soon as the rain slows down. We are building a compost together and have taken on the challenge of having a CSA (community supported agriculture) box each week and learning to cook more seasonally. We are drinking champagne and making frozen pizzas too late at night. Remembering ourselves and one another. What it means to be friends and to truly enjoy one another. I even feel myself thinking to other moms in the midst of tiny baby days... its truly goes so fast. Soon you will start to find yourself again.<br />
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Part of "finding" myself these last few months has been moving out of survival and onward with intentionality. I feel like I am finding more of "my people" and a community around me. One of my good friends, Morgan, is really knowledgable about personality types and how we live and interact with one another based on them (think myers briggs). I took a test a couple of months ago, so she could analyze me while we hung out ;) My results, which I think are pretty accurate, was ENFP. I think motherhood makes me more introverted at times, but ultimately I enjoy and get energy from connection with people.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #4c4c4c; font-family: "open sans" , "helvetica neue" , "arial"; font-size: 16.2px; font-style: italic;">It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for – and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing. It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool – for love – for your dreams – for the adventure of being alive. (</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #777777; font-family: "open sans" , "helvetica neue" , "arial"; font-size: 14.58px; font-style: italic; text-align: right;">Oriah Mountain Dreamer)</span><br />
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This was the quote at the top of my personality description https://www.16personalities.com/enfp-personality. I am "a campaigner and a true free spirit". I can relate a lot to what is being said under the description. Once someone told me they didn't like taking personality tests because they were limiting, but I sort of think the opposite. They can explain a lot about a person, and then I personally find freedom in knowing why I do certain things, and knowing that I am capable of growing past some of the weaknesses. Here is one of my strengths:<br />
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<ul style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #4c4c4c; font-family: "Open Sans", "Helvetica Neue", Arial; font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.8; margin-bottom: 17px; margin-top: 0px;">
<li style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 700;">Energetic and Enthusiastic</span> – As they observe, forming new connections and ideas, ENFPs won’t hold their tongues – they’re excited about their findings, and share them with anyone who’ll listen. This infectious enthusiasm has the dual benefit of giving ENFPs a chance to make more social connections, and of giving them a new source of information and experience, as they fit their new friends’ opinions into their existing ideas.</li>
</ul>
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Lately as I have been coming back to "my old self," I find more ideas and even passion for ideas coming back to me. This has really created a bit of introspection, especially when my good listener friend Morgan is around. The other day I was telling her about my current idea/passion of our family moving into a tiny home one day. After listening for a bit she said, "I feel like you say something really cool or that you are interested in, and then you knock it before giving it a chance."</div>
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Hhhhmm. Maybe I <i>do</i> do that. I told her that I think or know people are going to give me the downside, or the "practical" so I must subconsciously prepare myself. Actually practicality is a weakness of my personality type. However, being AWARE of my weaknesses doesn't discredit my strengths. As I have become a mother/ adult I have been telling myself that dreamers are not as important in society. For such a long season life has been about the practical. Changing diapers, feeding mouths, bathing babies. My dreams have been pushed back a bit. Or I have told myself at times that its a distraction. </div>
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This last month as I have thought about the New Year I have said yes more to dreaming, and I am finding that it really is who I am meant to be. As I have dreamed (and even practically accomplished somethings) about composting, less waste and buying in bulk, minimal living, eating seasonally, tiny house researching.... all of these dreams have brought about conversations and connections to people. Which is really a core value to me.</div>
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So take time to self reflect or take a test https://www.16personalities.com/ online and find out your strengths. So many of us are in the midst of the early years of motherhood, and I think knowing strengths can help with identity and finding passions. It is possible to be a good mother and also know who you are, to even love who you are. </div>
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I am excited to have friends that challenge me to be myself. When we as mothers feel fulfilled in who we were made to be, we will flourish at the self sacrificing job of motherhood. </div>
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The pictures above our my kids (and Morgan's) being themselves. Free little spirits that don't know any better than to just be themselves. </div>
Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-87847288398236356962017-01-02T18:57:00.001-08:002017-01-02T18:57:11.131-08:00The Art of Staying Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"There's romance enough at home, without going half-a-mile for it; only people never think of it." -Pickwick Papers<br />
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"It is right to begin with the obligations of home, and, while these are overlooked and neglected, no other duties can possibly be substituted for them." - Bleak House<br />
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Saying that the home is a romantic place as a stay at home mom can seem like a very far stretch. Even as I tried to write this post yesterday there was literally too much noise and needs to have much of a clear thought. The duties of motherhood are not romantic, but moments can be.<br />
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I have been reading through a book for a couple of years, A Charlotte Mason Companion by Karen Andreola. It has taken me a couple of years because I am basically trying to work up the energy (while sometimes pregnant or with a new baby) to read about a theory of education after the kids are in bed each night. But over the last couple of months I have been getting more into the depth of the book, and I had read the quotes above in a chapter the author was writing about Charles Dickens' writings and his regard for home. This idea of home life has always been interesting to me.<br />
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When Blanche was just a baby and we lived in Arkansas we had a pretty beautiful home life. One, because I only had one baby, and two, we had very little money and stayed home or went on walks most of the time. We lived in a small town named Siloam Springs and Andrew could walk five minutes to downtown where he ran the coffee shop. There were many weeks where we maybe only drove our one car to the store once or twice and that was it. It was a "treat" to go into the bigger city and shop at target or the local health food co-op. We often went once a month to the co-op, bought in bulk, and cooked through the bulk over time with fresh produce from our garden. Yes, I said Arkansas when Blanche was a baby, not Little House on the Prairie. It is easy to romanticize our small town life. We still had long days and Andrew was often very exhausted by dinner. He rose early and normally did most of the cooking. While I helped clean and took care of Blanche. But as I now look back to that time I do see a romance to the slow life. I hung diapers every other day on the laundry line, and would often bump into my neighbor doing the same thing two spaces down in our townhouse. I made sun tea and sewed cloth wipes and burp rages. I made homemade make-up with that same neighbor friend, and we even shared dinner or wine outside the homes in our backyard space. Life was slow. Sometimes I felt too slow.<br />
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We moved to Austin for Andrew to have more of a career. And with our move to a bigger city, we have slowly lost a lot of that old life. Somethings had to leave with time. We now have three kids over one. Sometimes we found that buying things already made at Whole Foods with Andrew's discount was cheaper and more time saving than making it ourselves. But there are times when I can think I am always saving time but I'm not really using it. I told Andrew the other night while we laid in bed that him working full time as the only money maker, me taking care (feeding, clothing, bathing) three small children, running a home, and trying to live and eat in a healthy and responsible way... well there's the week. There are the days. They are full and busy with just that. But as we've come to a new year and I have had more time at home and time to think, I think its time to relearn the art of staying home.<br />
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After several slow days at home I have come to believe that staying at home is an art. There can be beauty to it, but it requires thought, motivation, and patience. When I talk about the home being romantic I don't mean sitting in my pjs watching Netflix (but for the record... anyone with a new baby and literally stuck at home... please, stay in your pjs, watch Netflix, I have been in that season many times). The romance of home is having the time to make vegetable soup while the fire is going. For Andrew to make homemade soda bread to go along with it, and for the girls to have as many marshmallows as they and their stuffed animals need. The romance of home is raking leaves and making lemonade. It is having enough time for my kids to make a hot chocolate stand out of dirt and old gardening containers in the backyard. Shoot its even just enough time to do my laundry.<br />
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Before the holidays I had a few weeks where we literally had something planned for each day. A lot of times they were just morning activities but they were still taking time, thought, and energy from me. As I have slowed down with the holidays I am seeing the need to have these reset days. Slow days always built into our lives to recharge, to become immersed in deep play at home, to do chores and just breath. The kids and I have taken many "walks to the stop sign" this week. We literally walk a ten minute walk, or they ride their bikes down the sidewalk, to the stop sign with a "kitties for sale" sign and then we turn around and go home. This is enough for them. They love this.<br />
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In the end home can feel like hell and be romantic all in the same hour. It is just life with small children. I think the more I learn this and know it to be true, the better. Because then the hellish parts don't get me down so much, and I can move forward and connect with my kids. Because that is the reason I am home to begin with, to be with my kids.<br />
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Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-30639827877380784942016-12-21T15:37:00.001-08:002016-12-21T15:37:10.010-08:00We Bring the Earth Inside<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I grew up in Missouri where the winters were harsh. My hands would crack from the cold and my mom would rub utter cream my dad brought home from his work at the farm. She would cover our hands in thick lotion that felt more like butter, and cover them with our socks right before we fell asleep. I have memories of driving country roads at night with my family. Cold and bundled in the car, driving home from my uncle's out in the middle of no where and seeing snowflakes hitting the windshield. The harshness of winter brings out the comfort of home. My dad always had firewood chopped and ready in the driveway. He would carry in loads and tend the fire all morning. My dad is the hardest worker I know, and never missed a day of work, unless the country roads were covered in snow. Then my brother, sister, and I woke to slow morning with a fire. My dad would always be in his gray sweatpants, his red flannel shirt, and drinking hot tea. Which I never saw him do any other time. And of course, watching The Price is Right. Winter had forced us to relax. To stop and take a deep breath.<br />
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Austin winters are different from Missouri. They feel like they are never actually coming. All my friends who aren't from Austin keep going on about how hot it is, how fall or winter will never come. But, after a few years here I have a new hope. Winter will come. Slowly but beautifully. This last week it has been quite cold. Below freezing, in the twenties. This is cold enough for me. We buy wood and start a fire and can drink warm drinks all day. It gets cold enough to need to feel warm. To bring the earth inside and watch the wood burn in the fireplace. I wake and start a fire first thing. Then I brew coffee, and I snuggle the kids while they watch a show. The younger two like to have their diapers changed right by the fire. It's warm and they like to watch the flames while they lay there. I huddle us all up like we live in such a cold and desperate time. But it's still Austin. Soon the sun will shine and we won't even need a sweater.<br />
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Maybe all of this is just an extended fall. The weather playing back and forth between hot and cold. The dirt is cold and the Texas sun is big and warm. A dying spring of sorts. Leaves fall and cripple under the weight of dropping temperatures but then comes the sun blaring through the bare trees. I never thought I could feel a bit obsessed with the weather, but it really does bring inner change. I have found myself wanting to slow down. To breath. There may not be snow on country roads, but hats and mittens on babies is enough trouble to stay home. For every day we run or go out to explore, the other half of me wants to sit and be still. Andrew crochets. I read and take baths. The girls ask to crochet and make scarfs out of a tangled web of yarn. Foster sits by the fire, raising things in his hand making me always wonder if he will throw that object into the flames. I am convinced God made the seasons just as he did the days. To move and grow and to become weary, and then to end and change just as we need it to, the bright light turning dark, or spring buds starting to bloom. The seasons carry me, and for now, we bring the earth inside when its cold and step out when the sun is shining.Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-66383215495274144482016-11-28T21:33:00.003-08:002016-11-28T21:33:43.902-08:00Traveling to a Familiar Place <br />
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In October our family traveled back up to Arkansas. We had taken this trip six months earlier as well, both times so Andrew could help the new Whole Foods in Fayetteville. I have always loved to travel. And I still do, but it is a lot harder with kids. Especially traveling so Andrew can work the entire time. Both trips to Arkansas involved the kids and me dropping Andrew off at work each morning, going and having some adventure basically all day long, and then picking him up with the kids already having had dinner, and often already asleep. Very long days. Probably too long for young kids. But something I do appreciate looking back on our trips is how they strengthen me as a mother. I also consider the harder parts worth it to see the good friends that live there. Plus family has traveled from Missouri both times to come see us as well. This trip was over Blanche's birthday. It was really special to have my dad and step mom there. My step mom really made the actual day special for Blanche. She brought gifts and cookies and presents to the park. As well as a "Birthday Girl" ribbon for Blanche to pin on her clothes. Blanche felt pretty honored by it all. I had hoped to get more pictures of her actual birthday, but the days often involved holding a shy Foster or Rosemary or both... which left less room to hold a camera.<br />
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Traveling is a funny thing to me. Because I do consider myself more and more of a minimalist. I want less things in my home and I desire to literally want less. But when I leave my home it becomes evident how my home is a safe place for me. I am sure most people would consider their homes a safe place where they feel they can emotionally relax a bit. It's not the things in my home as much as the ideas in my home that make it a small haven. But when I step away from that little bubble and out into the world, with small children and chaos mixed in, it can feel exposing. I think that the idea of being exposed when you travel has really been shown to me through the eyes of my children. Children act so strong sometimes but it can be pretty clear how being out of their normal effects them. Seeing my kids melt down around meal times and rest times while traveling really shows me that they miss the routine and familiarness of home. When we are in Arkansas we often visit good friends and can spend sometimes 6 hours at a persons house. Because Andrew would be working all day and we would have the car, it just felt easier to find a home base that wasn't a hotel room and join friends until Andrew was off. My friends in Arkansas are old friends, I have known most of them for ten years. And while being in their homes and feeling so welcome, it would make me ache for them to come and stay the day with me in my home. Maybe it was just the fact that we were having more than two hour playdates, it felt like with several of my friends in Arkansas I got to live their life with them for the day. So much of it common to me from when I too had lived there. Longs days with good friends revealed to me that their lives were so much the same as mine, but also different. The distance between our homes, and country verses city also played a part. And neither life is better than the other, just different. That is why I have always loved traveling to new places and old. I am never the same person as the last time I was there. I am always changing for better or worse, and going back to old friends and an old town is just like going home to family, my perspective changes. Traveling back to Arkansas twice this past year feels almost the same as when I would leave college and come back home. There were parts I missed so badly and parts of my old life I loved. There were new experiences in my mind that had changed the way I saw things. And sometimes, when when I travel back to an old place, it gets a little easier to say goodbye and go back to the life I have.<br />
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I have sat countless times to try and write something to go with these pictures. I keep getting interrupted by Foster wanting to nurse, and my thoughts really do not feel very clear. But I wanted to put up pictures of our trip; I never did post pictures from the time before that, so my favorites from our first trip are here below. The first trip we took in the spring when Foster was six months. We went hiking and saw good friends and both trips were a mixture of beauty and chaos. I have never felt like I have had two separate lives as much as I do when going to Arkansas. I see old friends and places and we just pick up where we left off. Both times it almost just felt like we lived there again. Every night out of exhaustion I just soaked in a warm bath, drank tea, and went to bed. Getting to leave the housework to room service. I thought a lot about how I wanted to homeschool, and decided to start keeping a nature journal with Blanche. I came back to Austin so excited to be home, and missing the open spaces. Happy to see my friends in the city and sad to leave those in the country. If I could live two lives at once I would. I would walk around little Siloam Springs with my kids and go to the library with my friend Joy. Or pop in at Ellen's so our kids could play and share a pizza. Or meet my friend Danielle at the kids museum or friend Carolyn at the park. It is a good problem to have, being loved in so many places.<br />
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<br />Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-5315504337216275542016-11-04T20:12:00.002-07:002016-11-04T20:12:29.221-07:00That Time I Talked About TherapyAfter writing about loneliness last week I have been thinking a lot about it. Honestly it felt so good to just write the words out, and then to receive texts or messages about others feeling similar or just saying they understood. When I was in the midst of trying to sort through so many emotions with postpartum depression, I was talking with a therapist regularly. I always feel funny "naming" a season of my life, saying it was postpartum depression. Maybe it just stems from some of the stigma and shame that comes with mental health issues, but then if so, all the reason more to use the words. Anyways, when I first started going to therapy I had wished I could go almost every day. Something about talking to a calm and reassuring person helped me to feel grounded. My life felt like it was spinning out of control so much of the time. But not in the crazy and exciting ways that the movies pertray. It looked more like meeting need after need but not my own, and feeling like I had gotten myself in over my head. There was a to do list so long in my mind, but I felt like nothing was ever done. Dishes to wash and laundry to fold, and a loneliness so deep that it caused a lump in my throat when Andrew would leave for work. My body ached and my head spun. And I took care of everyone. That was my job.<br />
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The scary thing is that sometimes I still feel that way. I feel a lump in my throat and an ache for connection. I had went maybe two or three months since seeing my therapist, the longest I had went in a long time. But last week after writing about loneliness I needed that calm again. I needed to feel grounded. Therapy is always so weird. Probably to everyone. I am always so nervous in the waiting room. I wonder what I will talk about. But then she comes to get me and I smile and we walk to her office like we are just grabbing coffee or something. And then she asks how things are going. And I can go as real as I want. That's what I have always loved about counseling. I loved going to counseling in college as well. I could start light or just start crying if I wanted. And I was never judged or embarrassed.<br />
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Last week I talked about life and a little about this idea of being lonely. What is funny is most of the first half of the session I talked about seeing friends and family in Arkansas. And then we chatted about my preschool co-op friends, and new community that I have found in our church here in south Austin. She even ended our session with, "well I am glad things are going so well." And the truth is they are going well. I have a lot of people in my life that love me. But there was a part in the middle, a part where my therapist mentioned how a lot of what we talked about in the earlier days was not loosing myself. And identity. This. This is such a big and scary thing. Of course there are a lot of things about myself that I do know. I know I'm a wife and friend and mother. I love people and God and feel for the suffering. I want justice and peace. I'm bigger in my head than in real life. I fight for social causes or travel the world in my head. But reality is I love turning on PBS every morning and all I really want is a cup of hot coffee. But who am I? Who is Jeran? Am I an artist? Really? An artist that never makes any art. What do I like? Do I honestly like running to target and through the chick-fil-a drive thru?? (Actually I have come to remember I am more of the farmer's market, thrift store kind of girl myself)<br />
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So, this idea of identity. My therapist and I talked a bit about this, really only a few minutes. And then we talked about people in my life. And a crazy thing clicked in my brain. All I am looking for is connection. Duh right? But as a mother it is not always that simple. As a mother I normally hang out with a lot of other moms. And often times, being a mom is what we talk about. But while that is good and needed, talking about who<i> I am </i>or even who <i>I was </i>is also extremely important. Because that's me. Sure, my kids are a part of me, but it is only a part. And before too long they will be older or even grown eventually. And then I will still be here. Jeran. That artist who doesn't make any art.<br />
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So, that's my answer for now about loneliness. Remember. You know, sort of like in The Lion King with Simba and his dad. REMEMBER. Remember who I was or what I like. Like for example last Saturday when Andrew was sick, I was going to run and grab fast food for us but then I decided to be brave and go grab tamales at the farmer's market with all my kids. Because that's a Jeran move. And you know, we had a great time. The kids played outside around the stands and we even ran into a friend and her kids.<br />
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And, if you are like me, a mother who feels a bit lonely or out of place... after you remember, then go find cool people. Put yourself out there and connect. Talk about YOU. Talk about THEM. Not just your kids. Sure, kids can play a part. But maybe, ask them if they have a hobby, <i>or had </i>a hobby. Even old hobbies still count. So, let's do this. Even if you aren't a mom. We just have to be human, and remember what we love and what makes us feel alive. Because for most people it probably isn't nap time schedules or the weather or politics. Just ask, and maybe we can all find ourselves.Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-256978087629662362016-11-03T15:24:00.005-07:002016-11-03T18:13:38.053-07:00Foster Turns One <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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At the end of this summer we celebrated Foster turning one. His birthday was on August 31st, and that day we had our preschool co-op (plus Gigi and Showpa) over to celebrate. I've had these photos pretty ready to post for awhile, but I just haven't sat down to write much about the day. It is funny how fast life has moved over the past several years. It does not feel like that long ago that I was decorating the bookstore on the other side of the coffee shop in Siloam Springs Arkansas, getting ready to have coffee and cake for Blanche's first birthday. And now, here we are celebrating my third baby turning one. In a few years these last few years will just be a handful of memories and pictures, made into a season of life really, my "baby days" with all these beautiful children. Life is crazy when you have babies 18 months apart. But it is full and beautiful at the same time. We have squeezed every bit of joy and chaos that we could into Foster's first year of life, so it was only fitting to squeeze about twenty people into our tiny two bedroom duplex. I nervously laughed to my friends, "Let's just pretend we are all drinking wine and in Europe... it's more romantic that way." My friend Paige said she felt like it was the 70's over Europe, and that I had done a great job making my place feel like home. That made me happy and more comfortable with being vulnerable and squeezing so many into our small space.<br />
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Foster is a lover. He always has been. Foster is more social than the girls were, and has always been blowing kisses, giving smiles, and touching people's face. I have dreams of him becoming a passionate individual, loving people and making the world a better place. It felt fitting that his first birthday was a busy blur. That's how his entire life has been. And for the most part, he is okay with that, occasionally laughing or screaming, adding to the fun.<br />
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I joke that he is the mascot of our preschool co-op. But honestly he sort of has been. So many kisses from three year old girls. And almost all of them call him "Baby Foster." When we first started attending our co-op this summer he mostly rode along in the ergo or nursed and napped. And now, he is trying to walk on the playground with the rest of them. He waves hi and shouts "bye bye!" This last week, during our Halloween party, he too had to have a sucker. And of course since I was teaching the lesson, he had to be directly up front in the ergo in my face while I read a story. But thats why I love him. Foster has always been very close. As a newborn, a month early, he wanted to be worn and held so much of the time. Foster has taught me the beauty of letting go. To learn that life is not nor never will be perfect. I will never forget when I finally decided to just give in to him wanting to be held all evening when he was little. I started sitting in the recliner, with tea and cookies, in the midst of having postpartum depression, and watching all the sessions of Gilmore Girls. I learned to not just let go, but to relax and let myself travel somewhere else for awhile... and the joy in doing that. I would rock and nurse him and I knew it wouldn't last long. That before too long he wouldn't be able to fall asleep while I watched a show. So, I just sat there, eating cookies and not loosing my baby weight, and for the most part, being okay with it.<br />
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After having two girls and then a boy, I can say, that boys love their mamas differently. There's an admiration for mama that my girls didn't have. Sure, they could be clingy or love to nurse... but Foster, well, I'm the love of his life. For now at least. And I'm happy to fill that role. I joke that if he wants to live with me forever that's okay. But, I know he has a heart for adventure (and candy). I know that just as the first year has come and gone, so will much of his childhood. Flying before my eyes. So, I will just hold him as long as he lets me. Enjoying the love he was born to give. And to smile and watch him grow into whatever wild man he will become.Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-11480693201327950872016-10-27T18:30:00.002-07:002016-11-04T20:19:06.114-07:00Loneliness This past week I have been thinking a lot about loneliness. I was wondering one day if I was depressed and that was making me feel lonely, or was I just lonely and that made me sad? It's hard to write about feelings and sadness and topics of loneliness without feeling a bit too emotional or vulnerable. But then tonight as I thought about writing and how it would make me feel better, even if I did decide to publish my post and people thought I was weird, I sort of thought, "who the fuck cares." Now, for me I actually think the f word in my head way more than I should, but being raised in a Christian home I hardly ever say it. But maybe I should work on not saying it in my head. Its funny, even those little things... like being told a word is bad your entire life and even as an adult you can't think it without just a bit of guilt.<br />
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Anyways, I think I am getting to the point of not caring what people think so much anymore. Because if I am lonely then that means I feel pretty alone already. So, if I loose a few friends who aren't actually friends anyways... than thats my gain right? I guess this all is stemming from having a friend that was a good friend here in Austin, when I was in the middle of my postpartum depression who just basically stopped being my friend. That made me nervous. I have always taken pride in my ability to be open and honest. And then in a scary time I was open and honest to a person I thought was a good friend and she turned out not to be. Or too busy to be. It made me feel like maybe I was a little crazy.<br />
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But anyways, back to this topic of loneliness. I often wonder if I have always been lonely and always will be. Now, this isn't talking about Andrew. Andrew is my greatest companion. But he does go to work each day. And then creeps in that feeling. Sometimes the feeling happens when I am with him or other people. But mostly, I am home or with my small children a lot. And thats when I feel the most lonely. Maybe I'm not crazy but actually just miss adults. But then here is the problem, what does a person like me, a stay at home mom with young children, do? Do I schedule playdates every single day? Because we all know that is no fun for anyone. I think what I really want is community. I don't know if I miss a small town life that I was so use to, even though I didn't like it... or if I'm just wanting more people popping in and out of my days. None of my side of the family lives in Texas. And in a city like Austin, most of the time, you have to be intentional to get together or "bump into" people.<br />
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So, maybe it is all those things.<br />
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I know I am in danger of labeling myself or becoming super cliche to use a Sylvia Plath quote in a post about loneliness. I know it even bothers people (like my Aunts) that I even like a poet who committed suicide. But, for the record what draws me to her again and again isn't her tragic ending. But all the confusion in the middle. She was so brilliant and creative. And so lost in her own mind sometimes. Which is how I often feel. Her quote above is 100% my relationship with all people. Someone is either my savior or not. It sounds so dramatic to write it out. But its true. I put too much hope in people and then they always let me down. Because, they are human. </div>
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Maybe I am just writing all of this because I want to know I am not alone in being human. Or maybe I will let someone else know. Why are relationships and making friends so hard? Why do you have to be in a "getting to know" someone phase for over a year? Can't we all just dive in?? Say we are lonely and broken and we want to love each other. I wish. Because then I don't think I would be so lonely. </div>
<br />Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-43917464284471208112016-10-01T20:51:00.000-07:002016-10-01T20:57:37.657-07:00Finding a Ladybug<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last week a friend was over and she was reminiscing a bit about when her kids were the age of mine. The little years before school and extra curricular activities. My simple little life felt probably a little romantic to her. She said, "I know everyone says you will miss it, but the good really does stick with you." I thought quickly about what she was saying and knew it was true. Even now, just a few short years (even months!) from those new baby days and I think simple things like "we just did our best."<br />
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My friend's words did get me thinking though. This is our last year before "school." I know I have felt a lot of pressure about what my decision will be for Blanche's first year. Whether to keep doing what we are doing and add a bit more study, or to send her to public school and start a whole new chapter of life. Either way, Thursday morning as we walked on the trails at the Wild Flower Center I just felt a peace. To stop and truly enjoy my children and the stage of life we are all in... Being the main subject of this blog (the artist with occasional meltdowns) I of course had that peace for the morning and then that afternoon tried to envision my whole future on whether we would buy a house, adopt a baby, and/or homeschool. You know. Peace of mind. But after melting down a bit, rambling to Andrew and then watching Netflix, I feel a bit better. I think sometimes (okay a lot) I am not getting enough sleep and my overthinking starts to kick in full force. But the last couple of days have been just the reminders I have needed in life. We have played at the park with friends and had sometime as a family with Andrew. It really does take so very little to make my kids excited. Today Blanche found a ladybug outside. It really reminded me of <a href="http://storytimewithjerbear.blogspot.com/2015/03/finding-worm.html">the time we found a worm.</a> There is such great excitement in kids with the smallest parts of nature. Its refreshes me. Somehow Rosemary found this little ladybug in the huge pile of wood chips that is our yard. And then not only that, but Blanche played with it, and then left it in the garden and came back four hours later to find it. Tonight all three kids were outside and playing with the lady bug. "Enjoy them where they are" is what I thought. And then I remembered how one of the things I've wanted to start doing for homeschool is a nature journal. I brought out two pieces of paper and the crayons and asked the girls if they wanted to draw the lady bug. "Yeah!" Blanche exclaimed.<br />
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The girls took turns holding it, drawing about it, trying to protect it, and so on. I feel like these moments when they are outside and working together their play becomes so rich. They share better and act so kind at times. Then Blanche got the playsilks to throw above the air conditioner fan outside. Another favorite game. So simple.<br />
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I am pretty sure we will homeschool. My brother asked me the other day about it and I said I was about 70% with homeschooling and 30% with public. He said I could just send her on the days I didn't feel like homeschooling (actually if anyone knows of part time in Austin... let me know!) haha. But I think the key for me is to not think too far ahead. A year ago if someone would have told me I was helping Blanche with basic sight words and checking out level one reading books from the library I would have thought "Oh wow, I must have gotten my act together." But in reality, it has all come from Blanche and her interest and love of learning. We are slowly figuring it out together. And thats really what I want anyways. I want learning to not be just about the subjects but home life and in nature as well. As soon as I can be fully confident, I will be fully ready. Sure, three kids ages 1,2, and 4 is a bit nuts. But there are great moments every day. My mind just has to slow down enough to live in the present, to be present, and to be there for my kids. One worm or ladybug at a time.Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-28197131138781449322016-09-12T21:33:00.001-07:002016-09-12T21:34:13.468-07:00Summer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It started to turn into summer and we thought maybe we would move. There was a chance that a position could open for Andrew to transfer to the Whole Foods in Fayetteville, Arkansas. We'd move back to the place where we first met. After working through my own struggles, a change of pace sounded nice. Good friends were still where I left them in Arkansas. Andrew and I talked. We dreamed dreams of land and cheaper living, a slower pace to life. But we knew nothing was for certain. So we should keep living here in Austin. I wrote in my journal abstractly that this "was a summer in Austin with my kids." I tried to look at it as if I was on holiday. Except I said yes to things I wondered if we would stick around for, like our Monday morning preschool co-op. And our weekly Wildflower hike. We found a church. I made more friends. We lived life. And we never left.<br />
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Maybe we will move one day, but for now, being here has made me happy. We are always moving. Year after year. Place after place. Not always changing cities, but at least the place we rent. Sometimes forever is too long of a time for my mind. So, just the summer seemed to be just long enough. I jump too far ahead all of the time. So, this summer, wondering for awhile if we would move, but trying to stay here in my mind, was the best thing. I feel as though I have lived life a bit more. Done things I knew I wanted to do. I may have even been more bold, wondering how long we would be here.<br />
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Several times I have written on this blog and said, "I have overcome postpartum depression." I think my brain always wanted to say it was over. But honestly, it has taken most of this first year. No, I wasn't lying in bed for a year. Or even seeing my counselor regularly for a year. But depression and anxiety can be hidden or look different to those around us. For me, I have recognized myself again. Found more of the person I was missing, even though I didn't really know I was gone. My humor is back a bit more. I say more awkward things in public, like the old days. I have started being silly more often with my kids. I have wanted to start thrifting again. And writing. And art. Oh, to be an artist. To be creative. To wonder and hope to create something worth seeing or reading.<br />
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I often doubt myself. But not in really recognizable ways. I don't just think, "I'm dumb. I can't do this." No, its more an all day self doubt on whether or not I should homeschool Blanche next year. If it's a good idea. Or if I have too many babies to do such a thing. Does anyone think I could do this? Should I even? But then after nearly crying and texting a good friend and then talking Andrew to death I have a small plan. Then that night, I watched a Netflix show with Andrew called The Chef's Table. I think all of the chefs I have seen so far are a bit crazy and true artists. They have so many ideas. Its all about the ideas. The show is more about art and philosophy than cooking. And while I watched it I thought, "You know, he just does whatever he wants to do." And it must be so freeing. To be confident enough to do such a thing. And thats why I wanted to homeschool in the first place. To do what I wanted. So maybe I could do it. And even if I don't its not because I couldn't. I can raise these babies. I can do this.<br />
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The next day we went and got free balloons from the grocery store. I wondered why I didn't do this more often. I think fear keeps me from just "hanging out" with my kids. I always feel like I need a plan. Because I am so outnumbered and you never know who may need to go potty. But, what if I just enjoyed them? What if we just got balloons and free samples because we can? Because I am lucky enough to just be at home with them every day.<br />
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I always overthink. And when I overthink every little thing in life it can get pretty scary at times. But when I stop and just write it down abstractly, like, "it's just a summer in Austin with my kids" I can see a bit more clearly. It's all like that. I'm just a mom. Taking care of these little people. Feeding them and clothing them. Helping them. Maybe I will even teach one to read one day. Sometimes I get so caught up in all these big things and the big ideas of it all. And then, there are my kids, just wanting juice and gum. Maybe a show. Maybe the park. Maybe train track building with me or a story. It can be pretty simple. It really can be.<br />
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<br />Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-53428014411653165592016-09-12T14:09:00.001-07:002016-09-12T14:21:43.830-07:00Spring<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Even though just published now (September) these pictures were taken this last spring. I had all of these edited and saved on my blog but no words were written and it was left unpublished. Now, looking back, I can really see my last year (Foster's first year of life) in literal seasons. We started with baby Foster in the hot August summer of 2015. And now in the summer of 2016, we feel much more on our feet again and Foster feels like he has always been a part of our family.Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-37365911695725280832016-05-30T20:33:00.002-07:002016-09-12T14:11:22.996-07:00Winter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The last time I wrote and posted here it was Rosemary's birthday and the middle of winter. As a mother I am always changing, but with these seasons, and this last year in particular, I feel I have had a refining. As obvious from some of my previous posts, my transition to three children was harder than I had hoped. Many elements play into why, but all of that seems behind me now. In response to some of the hardships, I have been on what I jokingly call "a minimalist journey." I have read several books about minimalism, and have basically touched every item I own and thought through why I would need to keep it. As an emotional "feeler" type of person this has had a powerful effect on me. My main motivation in reading such books was to find an easier way to keep my house clean with three kids four and under. What has come from it though has been a stronger sense of self and what I want in life.<br />
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Maybe it sounds funny to have gained so much by getting rid of things, but the process (The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up) really leads a person to find out why he or she hangs on to certain things... or maybe what he or she wishes she had instead. Honestly right now my house feels a little bare. The walls are as white as they have ever been. Something I read though was the last true stage of this process was to add a few things. A splash of color. Maybe flowers or a painting I truly love. I have gotten rid of so many things just taking up space, that now I get to take my time deciding what I love enough to display in my home.<br />
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Deep down I have known that a big desire is to have more of my own photography printed and hung. One book I read recommended going through all of my photos. ALL. And only keeping those that I love. As a former photography major, I have a lot of photos. In my lightroom catalog, I had gotten in a horrible rushed habit of editing but then never deleting the other photos. This resulted in over 20,000 pictures that needed to be looked through. I have looked through and deleted 10,000. I have saved 2,000 and now still have about 8,000 more to look through. Why this process may sound like torture to many, I actually enjoy organization. Another aspect I hadn't thought about, was that I am strengthening and regrowing my photography skills while doing this. I am making so many decisions about what is good. For awhile after having children every photograph felt "good" to me because it was of my child. But I am seeing more clearly that not only are there many that are not that great, but I actually have a desire for certain pictures that I haven't even captured. I realized I had gotten in a bit of the instagram phase where I was mostly just documenting. Sure the composition can be nice sometimes. And I have kept many pictures taken with a phone. But all of this editing has shown me to slow down, use my real camera, and to stop and capture the faces of my children. Those are the pictures I want. Their faces. Their growing and exploring selves.<br />
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With realizing how much less I can own, I have also come to see that less words and pictures on a blog may be necessary for this stage of life. I have been writing more in my own journal, with more raw and open text, strengthening my writing as well. I am happy to know that I am pursuing the things that make me feel like me, writing and photography.<br />
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These last few months have really flown by, but the pictures above are the ones that touched me the most. I feel and know that all my children are going through extreme stages of growth. Blanche is becoming more of a five year old that is ready for more than the days of toddlerhood. Rosemary is becoming more of her own person, sometimes growing faster than her little body can keep up with. And Foster, Foster is a lover. He cries, don't get me wrong. But he cries about things like trying to crawl and rolling over instead. And he grabs my hair harder than anyone ever has to pull me in for a kiss. My children take every ounce out of me during the day, but the memories of them restore me each night. I have come to understand the work of taking care of three. It never really ends. There will always be more to do, but I have what many people wish and hope for, and these little wishes call me mama.<br />
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<br />Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-39504902706445437222016-02-18T21:11:00.001-08:002016-02-18T21:11:07.904-08:00Rosemary Turns Two<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last month, January 21st to be exact, Rosemary turned two. She is now older than Blanche was when we moved to Austin. And almost the same age as Blanche when she too became a big sister. It doesn't seem like that long ago that this was little two year old Blanche, because actually it wasn't that long ago. All three of my kids are going from infant to baby to toddler to preschooler in just a few short years. Its good to remember that on days that I am really tired. So many things are always changing.<br />
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As a family we are finding our little traditions and celebrations. It has slowly started becoming the birthday tradition that Andrew and I stay up late and decorate the kitchen the night before a birthday. We leave a small present on the table, and normally have a special treat like donuts planned for breakfast. One thing I love about small children is that it doesn't take much to get them excited. Paper chains like Mr Rogers! Happy Birthday!<br />
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We didn't do a party this year. One because of my own tiredness with three, and also Rosemary seems a bit shy sometimes and I wanted to soak up her normal self that day. There was however a hike planned at the Wild Flower Center. So we sort of joined the group while also there with Gigi and Showpa. The Wild Flower Center is pretty magical in itself, so that was a fun and big part of the day. After that we went out to lunch with Andrew's parents to one of our favorite Italian restaurants. Then the girls played for awhile on the playground behind the restaurant. By the time we were home all of us were pretty worn out. Andrew built a fire as the evening cooled down, and the girls had bumblebee cupcakes. I think Rosemary felt loved and knew it was a special day.<br />
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Even in this last month since her official birthday, I think she has become even more "two." I was thinking back today about how when Blanche was this age and I had a new baby. It was very stressful for me. I didn't really know what to expect and the pure sass and disrespect from my formally such loving baby was a shock. But now, the second time, it can be maddening to have a toddler but its not so serious. It's actually kind of funny. Rosemary does enough sweet things to make up for her naughty ones. But the things she has started to do make me mostly smile.<br />
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<b>At two Rosemary can:</b><br />
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Speak in four word sentences. (Way different than sign language Blanche!)<br />
Put on her own shoes and socks<br />
Turn on the hose and water the garden (even without being asked!)<br />
Open the pantry to grab a snack (also without being asked)<br />
Count "1,2,5,7..... 11,12,13,14," She's working on filling in the gaps<br />
Paint a picture<br />
"Write letters" with Blanche<br />
Can help with simple chores and requests around the house<br />
Can hike and hold her own in the woods<br />
Dance beautifully<br />
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<b>Other funny traits:</b><br />
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She is sweet and loving but also probably bullies Blanche more than Blanche does to her.<br />
She can climb anything and says she's a monkey<br />
She also loves baby dolls and stuffed animals. She calls Simba "my best friend"<br />
She wrinkles her nose and squints her eyes when being mad, mean, or naughty<br />
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<b>Funny things she's said lately:</b><br />
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Just today at the park, partly imitating Blanche:<br />
(to me) "Human! Show now! Watch me!!"<br />
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Yes she called me a human.<br />
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Tonight while I was trying to brush her hair:<br />
"Mom! NO! Beautiful!"<br />
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When she's mad she says (again imitating Blanche)<br />
"NOT ANYTHING ANYMORE" And she really has no clue what she is talking about.<br />
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I think having a toddler the second time around is a little bit easier because as a parent I have already made some decisions in my mind on how to handle certain situations. I also know its such a sweet stage and hearing the little broken sentences of what is actually in her mind is so cute. Rosemary and Blanche are now in their own little room and sharing a bed. Rosemary sleeps well but gets up normally around 3am, stands at my bed and asks for "milky." Then she will walk back to her own room alone and put herself back to bed until morning. She is a strange child. I would tell her no, and maybe I eventually will... but it turns out she is her strongest self at 3 am. The other night she asked for milk in ten minute increments from 4:15- 5:30 am. I kept saying we were waiting until the sun was up. By 5:30 I was too tired to care anymore and officially called it morning. She then nursed for five minutes and slept until 7. Thats the part I don't love about toddlers. They are crazy. And strong. But I tend to have wild and lovely little things as children.<br />
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<br />Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-81754387445156147352016-01-30T21:11:00.001-08:002016-01-30T21:11:42.221-08:00A Day In My Life <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There are times that I wish I could fully write down that voice inside of my head. Write all those thoughts down not out of accomplishment, but maybe to just make sense of them. To see all the words written out on paper, and to grab certain ones and turn them and try to fit them somewhere, like a puzzle. Maybe if all the words and thoughts were out of my mind, and on paper I could put the puzzle together. Instead, I rise most mornings with one word in my head, "tired." So tired. Or maybe I feel more rested and begin the day accessing the current situation. Because, whether I am tired or not, there will be a situation. I ask myself these simple little questions, "What time is it?" "How long have the girls been awake?' (there are many mornings Andrew is home and up with them first). "How many shows have they watched?" "What is the mood?" </div>
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I ask myself all of these things on the way to the coffee pot. Sometimes I am stopped by a dirty diaper or a cry that needs a hug. Normally there is a request for a second breakfast, which is almost always oatmeal. I keep saying, almost chanting, "Yes but let me just get some coffee first." My mind never stops running, yet to actually speak full sentences I have to have coffee. </div>
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I woke up this morning feeling very grouchy about my life. About the fact that Andrew had to close at work last night, and that I didn't sleep well. When I am nursing and postpartum sometimes I get this weird cold feeling at night. It sort of feels like every nerve in my body is cold. And I can't warm the inside of my own body enough. Almost like a starving hunger. Is it low blood sugar? Is it exhaustion? It feels really awful. I normally eat to try and help the fact. But I'm never sure if its fat, carbs, sugar... what it is I need. And then I start to feel so high maintenance. But then, by the time I am in that hard sleep... I am woken by the toddler. And then the baby. And then four year old has a bad dream and wants to lay by me but I already have a baby on each side of me. And Andrew tells her if she just calms down she can have extra gummy vitamins in the morning.</div>
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I wake with more memories of the night than should be allowed. I am tired. Blanche wants to play a game that we played last night but I am just too tired to do anything. I try calling Rosemary's doctor. Blanche falls and hurts herself and starts screaming while I am on hold. I signal to go get her dad. Even though this is his turn to sleep...since we are both running on only a few hours, and he technically got up for cartoons at 5am. I hear her crying to him. I feel bad but also so tired. Oh yeah, the doctor. I talk with a secretary. Well, yes I want them to check her ears... actually I want to know why it has taken me months to try and wean her. I'm trying to get in on Saturday hours as a semi emergency even though I know her ears are probably fine and I need to wait until next week and make a real appointment. I'm on my third kid and I still have no idea what I am doing. I ramble half of this to that lady. I know I sound confused and tired. I decide to go take a bath.</div>
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I run the water as hot as I can stand and lay back and think about everything. Am I having a bad day? Or am I not really any better? Am I depressed? I access my current day, my current life. Tired. I can beat tired. I keep telling myself that eventually everyone will sleep through the night and until at least 6 am. This can't last forever. I want to cry. I want to call in sick. I want Andrew to call in sick instead of closing tonight. My head is spinning. Why is my head always spinning? Do I have an overactive brain? </div>
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Tired. I can beat tired. I'll take them to the park. I'll let Andrew go back to bed. I will just keep going until I can no longer. Andrew sees me getting ready and says he wants to come. We rush around and I pack everyone up while he makes coffee and gets dressed. We go to the park and end up hiking on a new trail. I feel good again. The rest of my day goes like this. My head spinning and some many needs and so many people talking to me. I keep thinking about zoning out to the Gilmore Girls. I steam the floors while Foster screams because I don't know what he wants. I let the girls watch a Winnie the Pooh movie and hate how much I really do hate them watching shows. Then later as I make dinner I watch Blanche playing in an imaginary world. And I feel happy. Then I start to understand why shows bother me. Because I am afraid they won't be creative or use their imagination. But I feel enough pride watching her play that I know I will get through dinner and bedtime. We all make it. To the end. I read a Winnie the Pooh book about finding colored pebbles and think to myself how I really do like Winnie the Pooh. I hold hands and nurse. There is quiet. For the first time in my 12 hour day I am alone. The spinning stops and there's me again. I see my kids and how much I love them. I realize I probably am pretty normal. Maybe just a slightly introverted person that doesn't have a chance to be. I think too much. I am alone with my kids and sometimes I think too much.</div>
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But then as I sit here typing I realize that its often the moments when I give in and stop thinking so hard, that I do best. Like when the girls were fighting over the same books and I made it into a game of "library." All I did was make a beeping sound while "checking out" their books. I gave them an imaginary receipt. They smiled so big. Blanche would go into the living room and actually look through each book before "returning it." </div>
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Just learning how to be. That is my struggle. I ride my days so often on my own emotions. Or maybe my kid's emotions. And now after feeling like I was really in a slump for a while, I think I tend to over analyze myself. This is what I have been working on all along. To allow myself to be me, to be creative and sensitive but to not be stuck in my mind or emotions. To really live my days. </div>
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I have realized three things that help me do this... to be present in the midst of chaos. Hearing my counselor call my life with three young child chaos was freeing. To know that actually is what it is sometimes. And that I can still be happy. The first thing though, is Grace. Grace to give myself and my children and my husband. Honestly, I really would love if we never had the tv on or shows playing. I like reading or hobbies or being outside. But I am learning that life doesn't always go like I would like it too. And an hour or two of cartoons while we lay there semi-unconscious is really not that bad of a problem. And if that's "the worse part of the day" well, I guess we are pretty lucky. I have to learn that even when things are going well they will not be perfect. It will never be perfect. That is really hard for me. </div>
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The second thing is Positivity. I have to remain positive. I have to tell myself to go to the park or take a walk. Even when I want to curl up in a ball and not do life that day... I have to. Positivity in motherhood is a lot like perseverance. Getting out of the bathtub and telling myself that even though I want to escape... I am going to face the day head on, is a lot like that feeling when you really want to stop running but you don't. You actually push harder.</div>
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And the third is Simplicity. This works for almost every element. From meals, to getting dressed, to the simple little games I play with the kids. Having such young children is the perfect time to learn about simplicity. Because I often try and give my children so many amazing experiences. But sometimes being the librarian after dinner or playing tag in the front yard is actually all my kids want. I get so lost in my own mind and thought and worries... and all my kids want is a silly game. </div>
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So, to be really cheesy... I have sort of made it a little saying in my mind. My "GPS of Motherhood" ... I know I warned you it was cheesy. But, I honestly think that these three things (along with begging God for patience and love and strength) are the keys for me to fight the "I can't do it" feelings I often have. I know I have a beautiful life. That's why I take pictures of it. But sometimes my own tiredness and emotions can leave me feeling really stuck. But when I give myself grace and stay positive and just do a moment at a time... It gets better. </div>
<br />Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-51591237147421069902016-01-18T20:00:00.001-08:002016-01-29T20:48:04.572-08:00My Acceptance Speech <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I will never forget the feeling I had one day when Andrew was leaving for the closing shift at work. I felt helpless. I literally felt like I couldn't do it. This mothering three kids thing. As I hugged him goodbye I remember tears building up and such a sting of loneliness. I wanted him to stay. I didn't want to be left to deal with the chaos. I remember lying in bed, texting my mother in law. Asking her if she had any plans for the evening. She so graciously came and had dinner with me, and helped me while I did the bedtime routine. I could have done it alone. I would have made it. That's what feels so confusing about postpartum depression. I knew somewhere deep down, in my head or my heart that I was just the right person for the job of raising my children. And maybe for me it was somewhat hormonal, maybe exhaustion or anxiety... All I know was that it was a great combination of things, all adding up to make me feel as though I could not do it. <br />
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Foster is now four months old. I wouldn't call him a laid back guy, but he is comforted for a few minutes by having a sister lay next to him. Sometimes he sits in his bumbo chair and watches the action. He is growing. Things are changing. There are still hard elements, like his nap never lasts more than 45 minutes. I also think he literally doesn't know what to do with himself. But I think that's part of being four months old. Either way, I think I can safely say I am on the other side of the hard things I have been going through. That doesn't mean I don't have moments of anxiety or really hard days, but I think I am out of the slump. I am almost me again.<br />
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During these first few months with three I have been in survival mode. Like so many new moms, I have mostly fed my kids and kept them safe. (Or should I just say alive since Rosemary did happen to fracture her skull?) So much of the beginning has felt like feeding the older two snacks while nursing, wiping someone's bottom and lining the other one up for a diaper change. And even though those things seem unimportant, they truly are important. Sometimes when I lay Foster down to change him and he is crying, I think back to a pamphlet I was given after Blanche was born. It talked about attachment and connection. And that when your baby is crying, and you meet the need, something happens in the brain. There are connections and emotions in that tiny baby's brain. He is not only feeling loved, but his brain is developing and registering the care. Often times after Foster is in a dry diaper he smiles, and I kiss his belly. This is important. It is all important. And so, I really think I started right there, and have slowly climbed my way back up. One simple step at a time.<br />
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It started with meeting their physical needs, and my own. Giving Andrew the kids and going to a coffee shop. Sitting there and writing and drinking my latte until that fuzzy feeling in my brain went away. I also started watching Gilmore Girls every night while Andrew put the girls down. Sure, judge me. But to me, there was something I connected with. The three generations of women and their complicated love and relationships. I think this for me was allowing myself to zone out. Foster needed to be rocked and nursed, and I allowed myself to relax and let the dishes go for awhile. It really was what I needed. I am sure there were so many little things like this. I remember throwing a ball with Blanche outside. And how happy she was. Andrew rearranged our entire house too. And actually, I feel like ultimately that was the turning point. Almost every item in our house was moved. The next morning everything just felt different. Now, I'm not saying rearranging my house cured my postpartum depression. It simply gave me a new look. I had always been pushing the girls into their room "to go play." Once we moved their play area into the living room, I sat there drinking my coffee and watching them play. And for once, the thought "Hmm what should we do today?" came into my mind. I wasn't just trying to stay above for air anymore. We went to the park. I posted it online, and another mom told me about meet ups that she and other moms have at that park. And then, all of the sudden, I had a new connection. A new successful experience and hope for the future.<br />
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It was really just a hundred small little things. Just leading me in the right direction. And maybe I am just rambling. But I can feel how good it really is to do so. As life has become a bit easier (not to say the chaos has left... because it hasn't) my mind is starting to clear. Simple ideas and solutions are coming back into my mind. This last week we have sang a few times during lunch and the girls loved it. All we did was sing. Or we throw juggling balls into a basket. Or play pretend campfire and roast pretend smores. These are simple things, but big in so many ways. When I was in the midst of trying to find our new rhythm I remember just sitting down to play with a mind that was completely blank. So blank that I felt like I didn't want to be there with my kids. Not that I didn't love them, but that I didn't want to play. Or do anything. I told my counselor this one time and felt guilty. She simply responded, "That just sounds like someone who is exhausted." And that completely freed me. Yes, exhausted. I am. When things are hard so many things feel hard and unsolvable. I become like a small child before nap time.<br />
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All I know now though, is I'm so thankful for those hundred little things. I'm thankful for my mom and her phone calls and funny stores. For my mother in law and her physical presence and love in our lives. For the trip my dad, step mom and meme took to see Foster. And how we had a shopping trip, just me and my stepmom and meme. For our get away weekend to San Antonio. For my dear friends, those two especially with newborns who let me text them all day when things were hard. For my other friend from Arkansas, who figured out how to have a latte delivered to my doorstep. For friends who prayed and my husband being the greatest and most loving supporter I have ever had. Yes, this is my acceptance speech. But I want to remember these things. I want to remember how hard it was but what it felt like to come out of it again. For the new friend and her weekly hikes at the Wildflower Center. And for the Hike it Baby group I get to reconnect with. Life is chaotic but good. At first every day was hard and I was really just trying to get through the day. Then, I started mentally keeping track of my good days versus bad days. And then, the good outweighed the bad and I stopped counting all together. Sure, I am a work in progress. But I am thankful that I now can understand even just a small part of what many people go through with depression and anxiety. It is so hard to explain what it felt like for my brain and body to be doing its own thing... almost seeming out of my own control. But, with so much support there's always hope. All these pictures of Christmas and the New Year just show so much of the happiness in my every day. And as cheesy as it may be, I love starting the New Year with hope.<br />
<br />Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-9922253921263062012015-12-09T20:53:00.000-08:002015-12-09T20:53:20.628-08:00The Things I LoveA couple of weeks ago I added a new profile picture to my Facebook page. It was important in the fact that it was just me, eyes right at the camera. My old smile and plenty of new freckles. All in black and white. Just me. Even though I had breastmilk stains on my large shirt, and my hair was pulled back and I was in between bath and diaper changes... it felt like me, even for just those few short moments that it took to take the picture. One of my good friends Joy commented under the picture,"Hi, there! I know that lady! She loves beautiful things, old friends, and coffee." I read it and thought, "Yes. Yes I do love those things. That is me." I almost felt as if putting up the picture had been the question itself and my good friend Joy answered it in one simple comment.<br />
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It is easy to forget the things I love. Sure, I love being a mom, and I love my children. But I think that is a known. Of course I do. But in my first born perfectionist tendency... I have tried to make myself the perfect mother. The one that tries to never be annoyed or to hear her children cry. And maybe it took three of them four and under... but it is no new news now. My children annoy me. And they cry. And I need breaks. Because sometimes changing diapers and making chicken nuggets is not my favorite thing. And this is not to say I am not thankful for what I have. Because I can be thankful and also know myself and that sometimes, I need a break. So on this journey of motherhood I have started telling myself it is okay to admit that it is hard work, and that it is nice to have breaks. And also, children cry. I can be the most loving parent around, but they are going to cry. Really the words that actually come to mind some days are "bitch and moan." They are children. Babies really. I am the one in charge. I cannot be defeated by my own fragile spirit. My children are at tough stages, an infant, a toddler, and a barely out of the three "threenager" stage. I am realizing that to be a good mom I need to take time for myself. And not just allow it. Push for it. Make it happen. This will help everyone.<br />
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So back to the things I love. I really do love coffee. Coffee is the old lover that never left when I had children. He still greats me several times a day. But for those other beautiful things... I have to search for them. And find them.<br />
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We went out of town this last weekend to meet up with all of Andrew's family. We stayed in an old 1930's home on a beautiful plot of land with old sheds and barns and a pond. I could have spent a month there. I could have laid on a blanket and wrote in my journal and read books for several days. But instead of focusing on what nursing a three month old did not allow me to do, I'll instead focus on what I did do. With the help of Andrew and also his mom and sisters, who either wore Foster or talked sweetly and smiled enough to him that he didn't notice I was gone... I found and remembered some of the things I love.<br />
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I love taking pictures<br />
I love going to new places<br />
I love to discover<br />
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I love waking up first thing in the morning and looking out the window to a brand new place, the sun hitting the dew and frost, to me as if for the first time.<br />
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I love not stopping for coffee or even breakfast but running out the door with my old flannel shirt and camera to hurry not to miss the sun saying hello.<br />
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I love old things<br />
I love wondering what life use to be<br />
I love water and how when it is cold enough the air dances on top of it in the morning<br />
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I love quiet<br />
I love beauty<br />
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I love things to look perfect, even if just for a short time<br />
I love the sound of dirt and rocks sliding under my shoes as I walk on new paths<br />
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I love character but also charm<br />
I love my cheeks feeling cold but rosy from the morning air, and coming into an old and beautiful house for coffee<br />
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I love family<br />
I love my babies<br />
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I also love realizing that I was made to be so aware of my own environment, that I will notice things like drops of water on an old fence.<br />
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Being there and having that morning to run out and take pictures reminded me more of who I was. And it also showed me why my life can really be hard sometimes. I notice so many little details. When I'm not shooting sunrise photography alone those little details are more like crumbs of food on the floor. And toys out of place. And my ideals are so far gone. But I am growing. I am learning how to remember who I am and what I love. And to try to let go of the things that bother me... or learn how to cope as best as I can. Either way, I plan to write more and share more pictures. But these were some of my favorites.<br />
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<br />Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8981533354958253501.post-47142183285652881912015-11-11T20:57:00.001-08:002015-11-11T20:57:10.481-08:00Make Sure to Use the Words "Postpartum Depression" <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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How is it that each time I have a baby, time stops and progresses all at the same time? Each time I have a baby I should be thankful for my two hobbies of photography and writing, because without them, I am sure I would remember nothing about these days. When I look at the pictures of October, I still look beside the computer at the calendar to see that it is in fact only the middle of November. And I visualize a calendar in my mind, showing Foster being born on August 31st. And I tell myself, "So that is just the month of September and October that I have been doing this. And now it is November..." almost as if I am learning my days the week and months of the year as a small child. But it is a tired me, wondering if there is perhaps a secret month in there that I am in fact forgetting. </div>
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Most of September was hospital time, Andrew being home, and in the whirlwind of remembering that in fact I do have three children now. I had a couple of weeks where I tried to literally pick up where I had left off before being too pregnant. I think one week in late September or early October I went to a different park with the kids three days in a row. The result was Foster crying a lot and Rosemary getting a skull fracture. Sure, she slipped on water in a splash area, which I couldn't have prevented, but it made me feel like maybe this new life with three thing was a bit more than I could handle. We stayed home and didn't do much for a week or two after that. I was trying to let Rosemary's head heal and wait for the swelling to go down as well. She was fine. She had a CT scan that showed a fracture but no damage to the brain. Just a bad fall. At some point during that time I would say that Foster "woke up." He stopped being the month early baby that took a four hour nap each day, and then decided that in fact he would make up for his month he missed being in my womb by trying to recreate it by either nursing or being worn all the time. People call this the "fourth trimester." So the first three months of life for a baby they do like to remain close and constantly fed and rocked like the womb. But I guess I get about four months of that, since he was early. Foster started seeming harder to please at the park with the girls. With the start of fall, some mornings I thought maybe he was too cold, but then the next day the Texas sun would be in his eyes and I was sure he was hot. He would cry to nurse. I would be wearing him and nursing him and helping the girls at the park. And after Rosemary's head injury I felt I really did need to be watching her better at the playground. </div>
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So then I started staying at home more. Deciding that maybe I didn't have as much energy as I thought. There's something nice and also maddening about being in your pajamas all day. I tend to fly into extremes, out of the house every day, or not at all. I often have felt like I'm just a sleepless mother trying to take sips of coffee while its still hot between changing diapers and handing out snacks. I'm in there somewhere. But I don't have much time to think about it. There was a good week or two where I would realize I had never brushed my teeth that day. As I write this I run my tongue over my teeth and I honestly can't remember if I did this morning. It's not that I don't care to, but sometimes coffee drinking all morning makes me put it off. I started to hate how I always felt like I smelled bad. I was always sweating and had postpartum bleeding for six to seven weeks. I was starving. I could eat all day. I wasn't loosing any weight. My third baby turned out to be more high needs than I had expected. Sure all newborns have a lot of needs, but mine never wanted to be put down and I had two other kids to care for as well. My focus became the house. How clean could I keep the house. It was something I could do while wearing Foster. I could vacuum and wear Rosemary on my back and Foster on the front and put them both to sleep. Often times I would try and evaluate how much time I had when no one was crying... was it only enough time to go put on deodorant? Or could I make more coffee? I would sit and nurse Foster on the couch and feel the tiredness through my entire body. One of the first few days Andrew was back at work, I sat there exhausted at the end of the day nursing. And for once I just didn't have the energy or motivation to get up to make the girls do what they needed to do. I didn't want to stop nursing or put the baby down and hear the crying. I didn't want to try and do two or three things at once. I shut down. I told the girls to stop being rowdy but by the time Andrew was home the curtains were pulled down and our crocheted "Nycum" sign was only hanging on one nail.</div>
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Those were what I would call my hardest days. But somewhere in the midst of that and the cleaning and the long to do list that was never done I started to feel burnt out. So tired and burnt out at times that it almost felt like each little nerve in my body was a Christmas light that no longer could shine. Andrew's days off turned into the days I would just lay down as long as I could to try and not feel so achey. My body hurt. It was probably the rain. The cold front. It would be better tomorrow. I had my six week postpartum check up and talked about some anxiety I was having. The midwife gave me references and said to make sure to use the words "postpartum depression" so a counselor would get me in sooner.</div>
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I called around to two or three people. I didn't really want someone new age or too expensive. I would leave a message and get a call that she was full, and then a reference to someone else. I did this two or three times. Then I finally had an appointment. But she didn't take my insurance. No wonder some people never get the help they need I thought to myself. Then Andrew gave me a number to call that his work pays for. I talked to a man that sounded like a sixty year old school guidance counselor. He talked to me for awhile and then said he was giving my information to a counselor. She called, we had to wait until next week for an appointment, I was already going to the bouncy house with Blanche on Andrew's next day off.</div>
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I'm not sure if it was before then or after that Andrew's mom came by one morning to find me in my pajamas. I told her how my whole body hurt. I felt tearful trying to explain it all. There was a night that I felt so weak and overwhelmed I asked her to come help me while Andrew was at work. I felt funny because there wasn't anything wrong, but the thought of doing it all alone worried me. </div>
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I've talked with a counselor twice now. The first time I got lost and was twenty minutes late. We talked a lot about anxiety. I felt stuck in an anxiety attack the rest of the day until that night when I started drawing on my journal. "Escapes" she calls them. Thats what I need. Little ones through the day. Go to the bathroom alone. Take a hot bath after Andrew is home. DON"T CLEAN DURING NAP TIME. That's a really big one for me. I am currently trying to "let go" of the messes sometimes. To sit and watch Netflix or Star Wars. To realize that in fact the laundry will never actually be done and that it is okay. </div>
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I have started to spot when the anxiety starts to creep all over my body. It is usually when I am holding the baby and chaos begins, or Foster is screaming and other children are whining. All the little tiny things that I might be able to handle okay one at a time... add up to three or four or five things all at once. This is when I have to try and stop it in my head. I can't keep repeating the struggle that I'm in. I tell myself something happy. Or positive. I say a prayer. Or speak in the calmest voice. Sometimes I yell instead. Or I'll go outside instead of being inside. I will change my environment. </div>
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My counselor told me that suffering from anxiety can cause your body to feel the extreme fatigue and exhaustion it is being put under. Once I realized I had a bit more control than I thought over some of my anxiety, I think it gave me a sense of power that I wouldn't feel like this forever. And that as Foster grew I would probably have even less anxiety. Things would get better. I can do this. I realized today that I often make my days busier or crazier by rushing the girls along to different activities. Or even my language to them of spelling out to do lists that are completely unnessacry. I am trying to just be. To be in the moment. To be calm. To teach my children calm. Perfect isn't an option. But calm can be. </div>
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I keep thinking back to my last session with my counselor. I had told her how I knew I was a sensitive person. But I was also glad for it. Because the morning after that anxiety attack I felt I couldn't shake, I woke up fine. I felt strong. I had my coffee outside on a cool fall morning. The girls had their apple slices. Some heirloom variety that were crisp and sweet. The sun rose through the trees. Blanche had on her fairy costume. I had to take a picture. I look back on it and cannot believe the amount of beauty that has been given to me. After I told my counselor about the picture she held up her hands horizonatally like she was holding a large invisible sandwich or something. She said, "This is where most people probably lie in their ability to feel highs and lows. To sense the joy but also feel the sadness." And then she stretched her hands to double the size and said, "And this is probably you. A lot of people might see what you saw with your girls outside and simply say, 'Yeah they are having a snack.' The goal is to keep the feeling of joy higher than normal, but to try and bump up the feeling of sadness to not have to get so low. Or at least, to not become stuck down there too long." I know that has been the struggle with many creative types. And the idea is to stay true to myself, and instead of changing myself, rather to become stronger in knowing myself better and knowing what I truly need. </div>
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I write all this because lately I feel so many of us live behind the veil of our social media accounts. I truly believe we are mostly all doing the same things. So many of us mothers feeling in over our heads. But we keep taking pictures of the beauty. We don't want to forget it. But somewhere in the midst of capturing the beauty I fear we can often miss the opportunities to encourage one another. I'm not saying each person is called to write out their life on instagram. But there might be another person like me. Who keeps having really hard days. And doesn't get together with real people in real life very often. And maybe that other person is like me and starts to think that no one else feels the way they do... maybe in way over their head. But we aren't alone. And in my own vulnerability I am stronger. Just as I apologize to my own children and pray out loud in front of them to do better next time. Because if we don't admit we are all human early on, then all we will be left with is pretty pictures with no real story behind them. </div>
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<br />Jeranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01761082302784634129noreply@blogger.com1