Here's the thing

Blogging seems scary now.

I've started to feel like there are expectations I can't meet. 

Then I ask myself from where these expectations are coming, and I have absolutely no answer to that. 

That ongoing and important topic of women comparing the messiness of their every day lives to the perfect photo-op moments that make it on to other womens' blogs has an effect here I am sure. 

I mean, I use vscocam, and damn if some of those filters don't do magic 

Sorry mom. I said damn, which I never say, and will refrain from saying again.

But really, life his more like this:

You see it?

Yeah. This is real.

Real life is seems like I am out of focus devouring bites of toast in a hospital gown while my boys are stunning and wonderful, and seem to be so much more than I deserve. 

I mean look at that man. You can tell how I end up with a busy uterus. Sorry. Too much? 

I'm afraid that sometimes I blog to meet these superfluous expectations, and forget to do it because I love to express myself, and it makes me happy. Dumb.

Double dumb.

Here is to fuzzy backgrounds and eating food in as unladylike a manner as is necessary. 

Some times

One time I was so into a television show that I forgot to turn the burner off when I removed my finished ramen noodle dinner from the stove (We were still students, and Ches was waiting tables that night, so naturally that was what I was eating). A potholder was touching the burner. The apartment was completely filled with smoke before it tore my attention away from the screen in order to prevent my fiery death.

One time I didn't notice a hole in my black tights until we were on our way out the door to church. I grabbed a sharpie and colored my skin underneath to hide it. I took the marker with me in case the tights shifted. They did. C still teases me for walking around with big black marker moles on the back of my legs for a couple of days.

One time I dropped my phone on my one month old child's face. Avoid being over-zealous about baby photos.

One time I had to throw up (morning sickness ruuuuules) at the school before my students arrived. Apparently my skirt was a little tight because the slit ripped all the way up to my mid-bum. I had to waddle back to the classroom clutching my behind while trying to stay slinked against the walls. I re-learned two things, I can arch my back really well, and safety pins are a good tool.

 

I have always had an overactive imagination

I saw my friend Jess the day before I left Brigham City to come back to Le Sueur. We talked about her upcoming move across the country to where her husband will be going to school. We were only able to chat for about one minute, then I had to take the donuts I was buying out to devour my share to anxiously waiting family. She mentioned our meeting on her (completely awesome) blog, and it got me thinking.

I found myself thinking about moving. Moving across the country, far from what is familiar. It made me remember the anticipation of wondering how it would be, what the people would be like, how I would fit in and find new friends, what color the sky would be. You know. Thinking about how my life would carry on at all.

I remember the first walk I went on by myself in this new little town.  It was January, and just as you might imagine, Minnesota's offerings of pleasant walking weather in January might mean 30 degrees. It was quite cold. I had had a long day alone with the baby, and Ches urged me to get out for a few minutes when he got home from work.

No one else was outside. It was only rows of cold, stoic house fronts, and tightly shut doors. In my mind I imagined the occupants of those silent houses looking out their peep holes, or through their lacy curtains, and shaking their heads,whitened with age and wisdom, that someone who didn't belong in their town was walking down the sidewalk. It all felt very melancholy and dramatic. I believe I even imagined someone opening their door to throw something at me.

It all seems very silly now that I am settled in, and growing familiar with this place, but the images that surfaced in my head as I shuffled down that uneven sidewalk were true to how I was feeling: unknown, a little lost, out of place, and apprehensive.

So Jess, let me tell you something. You'll have your own walk in January. But, let me tell you something else. After you get back inside, and your husband has made you a cup of cocoa, and put chicken nuggets in the oven, so you don't have to cook dinner, life keeps going on. Not only does it keep going on, it starts to feel normal in a way you never anticipated was possible so far from where you had always been before.

Then, at some point, it starts to feel like its own version of home.

                                 

Pages

I have all sorts of soap-boxy things that I have been itching to write about. I feel like the world in general gets more and more messed up, and just wish everyone could somehow end up on the same page.

My page is pretty good. I'd be fine if everyone came to my page. Its a pretty happy place. I am also open to looking at other pages. Maybe we could have a little page pow-wow in order to pick and choose the best parts to make one SUPER great page for everyone to be on.

And please, can we have every-day, non-powerful,nice people do most of the page writing? Thanks.

Uncomfortability-ness

It is no secret that I am an awkward person. I am dripping with it. I breath it. If you have talked to me, you could probably see it spewing from my mouth. 

That is just how I am. I'm awkward. I am learning to accept it.

I have mentioned some of my awkward mannerisms before.

The one part of this that I haven't learned to deal with very well, is watching awkward or tense things happen. 

I can't do it. I can't watch.  It makes me SO uncomfortable.

I am not just talking about watching that girl walk down the street thinking that everyone is checking her out, when really she has a trail of toilet paper fluttering behind her. Yes I turn my head aside and cringe. But I am talking about movies, T.V., books. 

I can't even handle awkwardness in non-reality.

I really enjoyed The Office for a while until I realized I spent more time "getting a drink" when Michael Scott was doing something abominable, than actually watching the show. 

I actually get anxiety. I can feel the anxious juices start flooding into all of the corners of my body. (I don't mean that to sound gross. Attaching "juice" to something seems to make it a little on the gross side. Beg your pardon.) I leave the room, close the book, tell husband to inform me when I can watch again. 

I think I may have coping issues. 

Really, already?

I almost fell to pieces for a little while yesterday.

Maverik was upset about something. Sometimes he just gets upset, and I am not sure what about. I do the usual things like check the diaper, feed him, play with him, and sometimes nothing I try works. Its normal. He usually gets over it in just a few minutes.

He was having one of these little episodes yesderday, but it was lasting longer than usual. I reached out to hold him. 

He pushed my hands away and turned his face the other direction. 

I died a little. I sat there dejected like a 13 year old who just found out her crush likes someone else.

Maverik D. (as I call him when he is being unreasonable) You are not even 10 months old. You are NOT allowed to push me away! I won't smother you I promise!...maybe. 

Fellow MOMS! How did you cope with when your little ones started not needing you for everything? 

*update. It is a new day, and so far all of my attentions have been happily received.

This is a fear causer that frequents my life

I know, KNOW, and am certain, positive and certain that if I use the handicap stall in the bathroom, a person in a wheelchair is going to come in, have to go super bad, and not have anywhere to go because I am manning the stall. They will sit there, and when I walk out they will stare at me, then look at all the other empty regular stalls, and look back and forth and back and forth, getting angrier and angrier (meanwhile I just stand there with an awkward look on my face, really just concentrating on trying to remember if I zipped up my fly), and then they will yell at me about how insensitive I am, and proceed to beat me with a cane.

I honestly have this visual every time I consider using the handicap stall, whether it be because the others are taken, or because their previous occupants forgot to do jumping jacks in the stall before they left to trigger the motion sensor flusher thingies.

So I wait, or flush first.

Then, during my stay in my stall, I ALWAYS contemplate the fact that people in wheel chairs do not in fact carry canes.