Treat yo’self

Bethany,

I gotta hand it to you this year. I’m really proud of you for following through on the decision you made last year at this time to “treat yo’self,” as Donna and Tom proclaim on one of my all-time favorite shows, Parks and Rec.

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You deserve to be treated well. After all, Mother’s Day and your birthday always fall within a few days on the calendar each year (if not on the same day). You’re a mom. And you inevitably grow one year older each year, unless you’re not reading this since you’ve already died (*crossing my fingers that’s not the case*).

Your husband is a great man who loves you, protects you, ensures your safety and well-being, and would literally take a bullet for you. Holidays, however, aren’t really his thing. You should have accepted this the very first Mother’s Day you celebrated together when you were pregnant, when at 9 p.m. he admitted to having completely forgotten about the holiday (and your birthday), with a deer-in-the-headlights expression on his handsome face. But you’re always hoping for the best and expecting better things might be around the corner; holidays are no different. Last year, three years after that first Mother’s Day you celebrated together, you threw a miniature pity party, yanked on your big girl panties, and made a list of four things you’d do every Mother’s Day/birthday henceforth.

Here’s why: expectations are premeditated resentments. If you sit around waiting for him to treat you in a certain manner, you’re going to grow to resent him if he doesn’t.

11836789_595568329992_4649913107534984823_nLife is too short to live that way. And why expect someone else to do for you what you can do for yourself? You know your worth—you’re the best mom you know. You bend over backward (sometimes literally) for your daughter on a daily basis. You make sacrifices in every area of life for her. You think of every moment as a teaching opportunity. You pray for her continually and seek to guide her in the best way you know how. You give her all the love she could ever want.

You’re rocking the mom thing.

Of course you should celebrate Mother’s Day.

And life? Don’t even get me started…

I think we’ve established that there are a myriad of reasons you need to treat yo’self. And here’s how.

  1. You shall bake your own cake.

This cake is for you. It is not a Mother’s Day cake to share with the other moms you love. You are to bake a cake you like (or pie, because sometimes pie is better than cake) and eat as much of that fattening, sugary piece of work as you darn well please. And you are not to make excuses for it, feel guilty about it, or allow other people to talk you out of it.

2. You shall go out to dinner or lunch on the day of your birthday.

You deserve good food, regardless of the price, and you deserve a break from both cooking and cleaning up from other people who do the cooking (which inevitably happens if your husband does the cooking, even if he’s trying to be nice).

3. You shall purchase a gift for yourself.

You have to purchase something just because you like it. Don’t buy something you need and call it a “birthday gift.” That doesn’t count. This is treat yo’self time, Mama! You don’t have to spend a certain amount of money; it’s about purchasing something that makes you feel appreciated and a little extra special.

4. You shall write yourself a kind note or buy yourself a card and send it to yourself in advance.

Say some kind words to yourself. Force yourself to dig deep and express gratitude to yourself in the same way an outsider might. If you can’t acknowledge, appreciate, and enjoy yourself, how can you expect anyone else to?

I’m glad to see that as you write this blog post, you have a little dab of chocolate cake batter under your fingernails; this means you’ll be able to mark two of these items off your “treat yo’self” to-do list after today.

Remember: you’re stuck with yourself for the rest of your life. You better like you.

Happy Mother’s Day/birthday, my friend.

 

The skinny clothes I kept

023I gained 60 pounds when I was pregnant. I was pretty sure I’d never lose it all, and certain that I’d never get back to my “skinny clothes” from when I met my husband. You know which clothes I’m talking about—the cutest clothes I’d ever owned. The clothes I’d danced in, flirted in, and okay, honestly spent several lonely nights in while reading classic literature on my own couch with cats crawling around in my lap.

In college, I never gained the freshman 15, but I certainly gained the Wallace 15 when I began dating my husband. After going through a stressful divorce, and quitting a rather stressful job, and after ending a very stressful period of financial woe, I entered into a true state of relaxation and ease and began to understand what The Eagles meant when they sang about takin’ it easy. My butt grew that year, but it probably needed to grow.

One of the first pictures I have with my husband, just a few weeks after we met. We're pictured with the couple who introduced us, Tony & Sarah Wang. August 2010

One of the first pictures I have with my husband, just a few weeks after we met. We’re pictured with the couple who introduced us, Tony & Sarah Wang. August 2010

I eventually started feeling a bit self-conscious about my growing butt, and I started hiking with my dogs every day in the woods behind our house. I noticed a difference in my butt size, my heart rate, and in the way my clothes fit almost immediately. About a month later, I became pregnant with Maggie.

I decided I’d better come to terms with the idea that the “skinny clothes” would probably never fit again. I’d watched many of my friends and “Facebook friends,” many of whom are not much more than acquaintances (let’s be real about that), kill themselves over losing every single pound of baby weight just to fit back into their pre-baby clothes. I’ve just never been that kind of person. I knew that wouldn’t change. I also know that I have never enjoyed exercising very much, and that I love to eat. With those odds stacked against me, I decided to kiss the cute skinny clothes goodbye.

So I either sold them all or gave them all away, save a few items that were either too expensive to part with or too emotionally significant. I guess there was something inside of me that was holding on to a tiny bit of hope.

I couldn’t part with the outfit I was wearing when I met my husband. It wasn’t anything fancy—just a pair of shorts—very short white denim shorts, size 0, and a chartreuse button-up top. I can wear the top again, but the shorts… think fat guy in a little coat.

I tried selling my grey pants suit, but no one bought it. I’m now thankful it didn’t sell because it fits me now. Who knew?! There are a few more items that fall in this category of items I didn’t get rid of and never thought would fit (and now they do). Old scrubs from when I worked in a medical office with my friends (these make fabulous pants to wear around the house if you have a toddler, by the way). A gray pinstripe skirt that is the epitome of sexy librarian. A cute Asian print shirt that I have no need for but that I just can’t seem to part with.

_DSC1797I don’t know if I’ll ever have the occasion to wear it again, but I also saved a coral cocktail dress from our friends’ Tony and Sarah’s wedding. I wasn’t at my absolute thinnest when I wore this dress, but I was certainly completely happy. I can’t say I was at my happiest, because I believe I’m at my happiest now.

I believe I’m at my happiest every day because life gets better as it goes along. I am with the man I love, and we’re raising our daughter together, and I’m doing what I’m meant to do with my life, and God loves us.

Every day I am at my happiest because every day I’m growing and getting better, whether I’m wearing my skinny clothes or not.

Right where I belong

“What’s one feeling you’ve had since having her that has surprised you?”

Photo by Say Cheese Photography

Photo by Say Cheese Photography

One of my best friends posed this question to me a few days ago as I rocked my drowsy five week-old baby girl.

How’s she doing? Are you recovering from the delivery? How do you like breastfeeding? Isn’t it crazy how fast they grow?

I’ve been asked these questions countless times lately. Maggie’s doing well. I’m recovering well. Breastfeeding is complicated but worth it, I think (ask me a month from now). And yes, it’s insane how quickly she grows, changes, and develops adorable rolls of baby chub.

But my friend’s question caught me off guard. Not many people have asked how I feel about being a mom.

Honestly, I hesitate to write about it. I hesitate because when I was pregnant, I felt skeptical of all the women I knew who believed that pregnancy was beautiful and the most wonderful experience of their lives. I doubted their statements about how the negative moments would one day vanish from memory. I admit that I often rolled my mind’s eyes while listening to them recant their fond recollections of pregnancy.

I hesitate, expecting to elicit eye rolling from those of you who can’t relate, to tell you that while I still detest the pregnancy process, I love being a mom.

I don’t just adore my little darling because she’s sweet and beautiful when she’s sleeping. I don’t just love her because she is the product of the most precious relationship I’ve ever had. I don’t just like her when she’s smiling, cooing, or cuddling me.

I mean that I love being a mother in the core of my being.

Most of my life, I’ve found meaning and significance in my career and educational journey. I’ve prided myself on making perfect grades. I’ve patted myself on the back for being an expert problem solver, finding holes and filling them in every job role I’ve ever held. I’ve planned out my days based on making meaningful contributions to others through work and volunteer efforts. That worked for me very well. It made me feel complete and significant.

Until now.

004I am most surprised that right now, I feel more like I am right where I’m supposed to be, doing precisely what I’m supposed to be doing, more than I’ve ever felt that way in my entire life. More fulfilled than I could have possibly imagined I’d feel. More perfectly aligned with God’s goals for me than I’d dreamed.

Even at 2 a.m., while sopping up projectile vomit and wiping away my own tears of pity for my daughter. Even after changing five diapers in 15 minutes while nursing a 48-hour migraine that I can’t alleviate with medication while breastfeeding. Even during the afternoon when I plop my exhausted pajama-clad self into the recliner and gaze around the room at the unswept floor, the pile of laundry to fold, and the Christmas cards to address.

Always, I am where I belong.