I've been thinking a lot over the passed few days about the picture I paint of my life and the life of my kids via social media.
I've been accused of over-posting in the past, criticism I take in stride. With each moment I capture and share, my thought process is always, "Do I want to remember this?", and "How do I want to remember this?" (i.e. which filter, angle, caption, etc.) because for me, social media is a place to capture the moments that define my motherhood and my kids' childhoods, without including anything (too) embarrassing or invasive. If you want to come along for the ride, great, but for the most part, I often forget that aside from close friends and family that anyone else is even watching the show. I don't always consider my complete audience and often make assumptions about what people already know.
A few weeks ago, while thinking about how life has changed so much since having Piper and how I feel like my rating as mom has dropped from a solid 8/10 to probably a 2 on some days, a few sweet friends just-so-happened to message me via Instagram and asked how I always seem to stay so calm and positive. And I was completely blown away.
"Me??? Positive?? Always??!"
Instagram for me is for the happy moments or the moments that are so chaotic they somehow become funny and I don't want to forget. And for me, it's going to continue to be that way, and I think many of you agree that you use it for the same reasons. It's the digital scrapbook of our lives. Instead of stickers we have emoji's and instead of hours spent organizing it all into large, heavy binders, we have compact books printed for us.
But when all is said and done, I'm always left wondering just how off the picture my incomplete message is to those I love.
I've said it before and I'll say it a million times:
I am a beyond ordinary person.
And I fail all the time. As a mother, as a wife, as a nurse, as a friend, daughter, neighbor, what have you.
I can't tell you how many times Adam has come home from work to find me, aside from the occasional pursing of the lips, voluntarily catatonic on the couch because of the emotional and physical toll the day has taken on me.
Or how many times he's come home and I immediately declared that I needed alone time and gone in our room and watched Netflix while he made dinner. And later confided that I felt like every day was just me trying to survive.
Or how I can count on my fingers how many times I've shaved in the last four months and made my kids anything other than peanut butter and honey sandwiches and eggs for lunch.
I've lied awake at night wracked with guilt from exposing my children to the whiplash of an unprovoked mood swing and I've looked into my infant's eyes unable to imagine anything more beautiful or incredible, and at the same time wondered if it's more terrible to be done having babies or to have another one.
I scratch my head each week, wondering when the laundry baskets went from completely empty to overflowing and cursed my small-sized front loader for making it take three times longer to get everything washed, leading to my laundry room resembling my 14-year-old bedroom.
I've dieted week after week, and when the realization that the weight just wasn't ready to come off would hit I'd have a few one-woman cookies and milk parties.
And more positively, I've sat back while all three of my kids are on my lap, some laughing and some crying, and somehow found that in that precise moment I could never be more happy or grateful.
I know that, by nature, the little moments we share only show a small portion of what our lives are really like, but my point in rambling about all of this is, in your social media consumption, however big or small:
Don't forget it.
Don't forget it's a piece, and usually, it's the best pieces. We don't want to remember the scary stuff. For me, I want to flood my feeds with all the good stuff, so when my kids and I look back each night and years in the future, they can see just how much they have always been loved and adored in their mediocrity by their super dorky mom.
I never want anyone to ever look at me and think I'm more than I am.
I am you. My crazy is your crazy and I have many of the same joys and demons as you do.
So if anyone wants to talk crazy, I'm here. Always. If you want to talk happy stuff, same deal.
As Tina Belcher once said, "I'm no hero. I put my bra on one boob at a time just like everyone else".
And Tina, you're extra special for even bothering to put a bra on in the first place.
A third baby! How fantastic, how intimidating, how uncharted and how exciting for our family to be growing even bigger. I always knew I wanted a few babies (8, to be exact--that dream has since changed), but now that my dream is actually a reality I'm just as nervous as I am thrilled to be snuggling and getting to know yet another sweet babe this fall.
There's no denying that we're thrilled about this new addition. So thrilled, in fact, that the morning I found out we were expecting was exactly two mornings since my sweet husband had left his unfortunately toxic job--and we weren't even phased.
"It'll all work out," he said. "I don't even care," I said. We hadn't been trying for very long and after a year of trying for Scout, which seemed like an eternity for us, and pales in comparison to so many that try for so much longer, we knew it was meant to happen and meant to happen now.
And everything has worked out and the pregnancy has gone very, very well.
Baby girl #2 is due September 10th!
She's very strong, active, and merciful. Thus far. I'll keep you posted.
Thoughts on pregnancy
Me and pregnancy have a bit of a complicated relationship.
And bear with me on this one.
I always envisioned my pregnant self as basically the same me, wearing the same pair of skinny jeans, unbuttoned, for 9 months, delivering a perfectly round 8 lbs. baby, and then going back to my normal clothes as if nothing had ever happened. I'm good at controlling what I put in my body and thought this stage of my life would be no exception, minus an exploding uterus.
But with my 5'4" frame, small torso, short legs, and unfortunate genes, these hopes were dashed 4 months into carrying Jude.
With Scout, the weight gain was slower, a red, itchy rash covered my chin the entire time, and in the last 3 weeks of carrying her I made up the difference in what I had gained with Jude.
It's not as easy as labeling it a "love-hate" relationship, because there are so many things we naturally love and hate about the experience.
It's more of a struggle with a self-declared war against myself.
I like feeling a sense of control over my body and appearance.
Why did that just sound so shallow?
I once told a friend of mine, in shame, that something I have struggled with in recent years was the way my jeans fit being synonymous with my level of self esteem. You might say, "That's so high school of you, Britney." But in all honesty, I was too busy with sports to care about my weight in high school. Also, skinny jeans hadn't been invented yet.
I've surmised that it really has nothing to do with caring about what others think of me, and it's more of an internal struggle of knowing I am fully capable of not having unwanted face fat, arm pit fluff, and leg girth, but for 10 months out of my life, I have no control over my own body's usually predictable metabolism. It's more about living up to the high expectations I've set for myself, and less about having high expectations for how I want others to see me.
And the whole time I resent my mind for not allowing me to simply enjoy this time of my life, that is so very temporary, and just take care of myself now, and deal with any unwanted weight or body changes later.
One night, after prodding Adam to give a straight-forward answer about his feelings on the matter over the years, he finally answered, "Honestly, I don't see it as you getting fat. I see it all as something really beautiful."
And then I stopped.
First of all, shut up and kiss me, you perfect fool.
Second of all, he was absolutely right. Any change, any skin rash, any face chub, any stretch marks or ankle swelling or extra hair or love handles or leg girth, for the sake of creating, growing, delivery, and nourishing a sweet, innocent babe is extraordinarily beautiful. And being the vehicle that brings that person into the lives of their father, siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles and others is no small feat on a body.
My thoughts shifted from resenting my body for not being a little more compassionate, to taking pride in the life it has already created.
I mean, seriously, the whole thing is pretty incredible, right?
So, in the name of 3.5 months to go, I'm giving myself permission to keep going to the gym, eat a cookie or two (or 5) and just deal with it.
Because in the end, this is the only time in my life when I get really awesome boobs.
photo credit to Myra Kjer!
Since I have a new career specialty, I think it's time to be totally honest.
To be totally honest...
-Is it really that shocking to find out that the only snacks we carry on the floor are graham crackers and jello? I don't know what people told you, but this isn't Costco on a Saturday.
-
If you're a hot sleeper year-round and your roommate is emaciated and dying, don't be a douche and tell me I can't turn on the heat when they're freezing to death.
-No, I can't put vodka in your IV. For the millionth time. That joke's not funny.
-If your blood sugar is high and I tell you it's because you shouldn't have eaten that chocolate donut, go ahead and dare me not to think less of you when you tell me it's okay because I can just give you more insulin.
-When you're sitting in your room laughing and flirting with a party of male visitors and tell me you're in 10/10 pain, I won't believe you.
-If you feel like you're going to throw up, just tell me. No one benefits when you beat-around-the-bush and puke on my shoes.
-It's amazing how awesome you think you look at the beginning of a shift, only to look at yourself when it's over and wonder at what point in the night that part of you died.
-After working three nights in a row, I never have the faintest idea of where I parked.
-That moment when you walk onto night shift and tell everyone "good morning."
-Also, when you catch up on your work and tell everyone you're going on lunh...breakf...? Seriously, what do you call that pre-breakfast meal at 3AM? Prekfast?
-When you're eating solid food, peeing and taking one Percocet a day, don't get all hung up when it took me half an hour to see you to change your lightly soiled dressing.
-Thanks, but no thanks, for your MRSA-covered chocolate pretzels.
-Sorry you thought you were going to get the best sleep of your life here. This isn't Jamaica and this wasn't your weekend getaway.
-I don't know if I should be proud of my subconscious for retaining new knowledge or concerned when I dream all night that I'm still at work.
-To the sweet old man who told me I was the prettiest nurse in the whole world: you're alright.
Okay, now be totally honest with me while peaking at some pictures I should have posted two months ago.
Nurse hat on, standing on a hypothetical bedside commode as a soap box, and begin: To be totally honest...
-Dear Dr. Stupid, stop yelling at me for your own mistakes. I'm not your dog. Furthermore, the orders you write for my patients totally suck.
-No, I will not respond to you when you call me "Pill Lady."
-To my male patients: stop looking down my shirt while I lean forward to listen to your lungs or I'll make up an excuse to give you an enema.
-No, I will not give you Tylenol, Tramadol and Dilaudid all at once because you have 3/10 pain. I'm not in the business of killing you.
-I had graham crackers for dinner last night.
-Stop blaming me for your colostomy pouch bursting when you can't stop picking at it.
-When I haven't peed in 12 hours, don't huff at me for having to wait 10 minutes before I could see you and then have the gall to ask, "What have you been doing this whole time?" just to inform me that all you needed was your trash bag changed. I will loathe your existence for all eternity.
-If your family member is one of my patients and you call asking "How's mom doing today?," I don't magically know who your mom is by the sound of your voice. Don't get mad at me when I ask you to be more specific.
-My nursing shoes should be burned.
-I fear that I will have kidney infections many times throughout my career due to carrying around 12 hours worth of pee every shift.
-I imagine I look like a ravenous hyaena devouring an animal carcass after weeks of starvation when I scarf down a few bites of a sandwich between patients.
-I have misspelled "pennies" for "penis" more times than I can count.
-To all my frail little old ladies who keep falling while getting out of bed: I have envisioned duct-taping you to your bed so many, many times.
-Don't flirt with someone who knows your medical history. You have no chance in hell, buddy.
Now, with your own professions in mind, be totally honest with me.
Buhhhhh.
I know I've been doing these a lot lately. But it's therapeutic. I swear.
At least for me.
And I LOVE reading all of your comments.
So, to be totally honest:
-Sometimes binging on chocolate for an hour feels so good that I hit some kind of euphoria and don't care how much weight I gain afterwards.
-I've literally been on the couch from 5pm until now (10:00) because I keep telling myself that I can't physically get up. I better not have to pee soon.
-Victoria's Secret commercials piss me off.
-I've been letting Jude wreak havoc around the house with washable crayons because I admire his free artistic spirit.
-When did we all start taking ourselves so gosh darn seriously? Get your panties out of a knot, you psycho.
-A few days ago Jude squatted down to poop and I ran him to the toilet and he cried the whole time.
-I have an obsession with online shopping and returning everything when it gets here.
-There's been a bagged-up newspaper in front of my door for the past 3 weeks and I'm afraid to throw it away in case it's not mine.
-I often deflect the creepy, wandering hands of my old, male patients just in the nick of time.
-I'm not entirely sure what store-bought meatballs are made of.
-Today I had my first bite of liverwurst and nearly died.
-I have some pretty sick stretch marks all over my stomach and whenever I look at them in dismay I think, "You're a tiger, dammit. You earned those stripes."
-Nearly every time I go grocery shopping, I come home and think, in triumph, "You're welcome, family. Now we won't starve."
-I'm terrified of tsunamis and even get uneasy sitting near lakes.
-When I was 11 I saved all of my baby teeth in my jewelry box. You know, for special occasions.
Ok, now be honest with me.
I ran out of shampoo a week ago.
One Tree Hill is so painful to watch, but I can't stop.
When my sister described my completely Jude-massacred stomach as "bread dough," she wasn't wrong.
I shave my legs on average once every two weeks, and hide them from Adam until then.
I secretly give Jude more whole milk than he needs so he stays just a little chubby.
Whenever I go on trips I put all of my energy and planning into what we're going to be eating.
I avoid scrubbing the shower like the plague.
I daydream about being a rockstar and wearing black leather pants daily.
I never sit down on public toilets.
Adam brings me home a diet coke when I'm having a bad day. And then I go crazy.
I ran up the driveway one day as a little girl crying because I could never be Asian.
I think hot dogs taste like soggy erasers.
I don't exercise to look good, I exercise to be healthy.
Ok, now be honest with me.
In my line of work I communicate with some fascinating people. And aside from their crooked bone structures and false teeth that never seem to be able to stay put, their honesty is what I find most interesting.
Yeah, ok, most of the time I find it offensive, uninformed, and pretty radically racist, but seriously--how much time and emotion would we all be spared if we were completely and irrevocably honest?
People would tell you when you're getting fat, that they're really not interested in seeing a movie with you about some teenager who thinks she's in love, that they wanted to go home three hours ago, that your house really does have a weird smell, and your child's chubbiness is actually kind of alarming and when you dress him up in bright red pants and a light-brown turtleneck he looks like a piece of fried chicken dipped in ketchup.
At any rate, honesty saves us all a lot of guessing and concocting of those exhausting theories about why that one couple stopped hanging out with us and how come my Halloween candy keeps disappearing.
So, to be totally honest:
I've eaten three Kit Kats and two Reeses today and I don't see a trip to the gym anywhere in site.
It requires every fiber of the goodness in my bones not to mess with the old lady at lunch who asks "is this breakfast?"
The back seat of my car is currently my second closet.
I laughed uncontrollably throughout the entire 10 pages of reading I had to do about penile cancer.
I bought expensive makeup to cover up my chin that's been breaking out for weeks because of Adam's facial scruff and his inability to keep his hands off of this.
And I daydream on an average of 8.65 times a day that Adam is Captain America.
