Today You Are Three!

Dear Mackenzie Leigh,
Today you are three.  I can hardly believe it as I sit here and type these words.  Three.  Three?  Really?  Has it already been three years since I held you, my bundled burrito baby, in that city hospital room overlooking our world below?  I remember how tiny you looked, barely filling out those red piggy pajamas I waited so long to dress you in.  I remember your wispy blonde mullet and how you kept yanking off those ugly hospital caps the nurses kept stuffing onto your head.  Even then you knew what you wanted.  I still struggle with memories of bringing you home from the hospital and of being so scared because I didn't know what to do or how to care for you.  I felt so unprepared to raise this little life we had created.  I remember thinking we would never get past those days.  And yet somehow, we've made it here. We've made it to today.  And today, I can hardly look at you without crying happy tears.  Without thinking of the incredible girl you are.  Never in my wildest, craziest dreams, could I have imagined you as you are today.  

Here are my prayers for this coming year for you:  


I pray that your tender heart continues to develop.  You've got such a sensitivity in you and I've seen it from just six months old.  The way you can look deep into the eyes of someone who is hurting and feel that pain with them.  It really is amazing to me to see how God has already given you the gift of compassion.  This year, I am going to pray specifically that God will continue to bring that beautiful heart of compassion to its full purpose.


I pray that with that tender compassion for others, your heart will not be broken.  Because you are so sensitive, I worry that it will allow for too much pain.  And I want you to stay innocent for as long as you possibly can.  This world is filled with too much bad.  And I hope that your tender heart won't show you too much of that bad too soon.  


I pray that you will continue to learn discipline. I pray that you won't be embittered towards discipline.  That you will know see the love that is behind it and how God uses discipline to teach you and others how to live life well.  I pray that God will develop a heart that sincerely want to do right for yourself and for Him.


I pray that you will learn and know that it is okay to make mistakes.  I pray that even from this young age, God will  begin to teach you about grace and the need to have grace for yourself and for others.  I want this so much for you.


I pray that you will have fun.  I see an old soul in you already.  I see that you want to grow up quickly and fast.  I see it in you because you are an only child and because you just want to be a part of the adult conversations. But you are still a baby.  You are my baby.  And I pray that you will know that it is okay to have fun and be silly.  To have dance parties in the middle of the day.  To sing at the top of your lungs when you are happy.  To run through the sprinklers on days that it is so scorching hot and to jump in the leaves this fall when we rake them into big piles in the back yard.  I pray that you will do these things without inhibition.  Without hesitation or worry of you how you look.  I pray that you will grow up slow and have fun every single minute of while you are doing that growing.  


Most of all, this year, I pray that you will know how unbelievably loved you are.  That in the deepest parts of your being, you are certain without a shadow of a doubt, that you are loved. I love you.  Your daddy loves you.  Your ornery kitty even loves you.  Your papas and your grandmas love you.  Your uncle and your aunties love you.  You've got friends who love you. But most of all, God loves you.  He loves you with a love that never wavers.  A love that is stronger than all of the human love combined.  And this year, more than anything, I hope you feel and know this.  

Happy third birthday my sweet girl.  
Love, Momma

Loving & Losing

I’m finding it very difficult to write the words I am feeling tonight.  I’m doing it though because I know that this pain will never be as fresh and as raw as it is now.  I’ve been very open in the past several months about sharing my struggles with other women.   I don’t like the thought of walking alone through my struggles, and I just as equally don’t want other women walking alone.  I don’t believe that God intended us to privately suffer through life’s hardships.  And so, even though this in itself is a very private struggle, I’m going to look for the words to share and to express my heart tonight because I believe other women might need to hear it. 

After Mackenzie was born, I said I was done having babies.  I swore I was done.  The idea of bringing another baby home after having postpartum depression the first time just seemed foolish.  I had one beautiful little girl and that seemed like it could be enough. But in my gut, I never felt like our family was complete.  This past winter I really began to go back and forth about having another baby.  And when I say I went back and forth, I mean I wrestled.  Hard.  Some nights I didn’t sleep.  Some days I cried over the decision.  A close friend advised me to give the decision over to the Lord.  So I did.  I began to pray.  I prayed he would give me the desire for more children.  Some days I prayed that He would intervene and give us a “surprise” baby so that the decision would be less of my own and completely a “God thing”.

This spring, a reoccurring theme seemed to begin playing out in our lives.  The theme revolved around fear and letting fear control us.  As a couple, we decided that ultimately, it was fear that was keeping us from choosing to expand our family.  And we decided that God did not design us to live in fear. 

And now, it’s summer. And while I would love to share with you the news that we are pregnant and expecting our second baby, I can’t.  I do however, have several positive pregnancy tests lined up on our dresser and a stack of pregnancy books nearby.  And each of them I want to burn.  Or hurl into the nearest lake.  This past week we experienced one of the most gut wrenching and painful things to go through.  We lost our sweet second baby.  To say we are heartbroken would be an understatement. 

 

There are many things that keep running through my head.  Feeling sorry for myself tops the list.  I’m working on moving past that one.  And, as you can tell by the, “hurling my pregnancy books in the lake” comment, I’m definitely moving right along into the angry camp. 

But most of all, I’m just so incredibly sad.  I am grieving the loss of a life that will never be lived. I am grieving for the son my husband will never get to play basketball with.  I am grieving a daughter I will never get to read bedtime stories to or snuggle and kiss goodnight.  I’m grieving for the little brother or sister that Mackenzie prayed for every night as she wrapped her little arms around my belly and gave kisses.

Practically speaking, I know that miscarriages happen.  They happen fairly often and they happen for a reason. I know that this isn’t an experience I am going through alone.  But emotionally speaking, this is just so incredibly hard.  We envisioned a life with this child.  We were planning for a future as a family of four.  We already had names picked out and were mentally rearranging our furniture to make room for this new life.  We were ready for this baby. 

It is a little bit ironic to me, to look back on the journey I have been on as a mother.  After Mackenzie was born I went through a big identity crisis.  I struggled with knowing exactly what my new role in life was.  Was I now “just” a mother?  Could I still be a runner?  Could I still go out with friends and enjoy life even though there was a little person at home depending on me?  Eventually I came to a place of realizing that my identity was not lost but just expanded.  I gained a part of my identity when my daughter was born.  I write all of this to say that that moment I conceived this second baby, my identity expanded even more.  I am not just the mother of Mackenzie.  Now I am a mother of two children.  One of whom I have the privilege of raising here on earth, the other, I believe is waiting for me in the arms of Jesus.  For whatever reason, God chose to bring that baby home to Him.  And it is painful.  This pain I feel, this longing for that baby, is so great and cuts so deep to my heart. And yet, I know that eventually I will be okay.  Not today. Probably not for a long time.  But eventually, I will be okay.

This week was hard.  Probably the hardest week we've had as a family.  And yet, it was a week of bonding.  A week of praying and cuddling and crying.  A week of saying goodbye.

I'm not really sure where we go from here. I can say that fear has once again crept back into the realm of defining my thoughts and future plans.  The idea of trying for another baby and possibly losing that baby too just seems like it would be too much to handle.  And yet, I was reminded today by a friend that ultimately we must choose whether taking certain risks in life are worth it.  If we want to expand our family we are going to have to take that risk.  I believe the risk would be worth it to expand my identity even more.  To become a momma to a third baby would be such a privilege and a risk worth taking.  And someday down the road, I hope to be able to share that happy news with all of our friends and family.

Sharing and Growing

Today, I was so honored to have one of my pieces chosen for the front page of my favorite site Postpartum Progress. This blog site has been an incredible resource to me while I have been on my journey through PPD.  The women who share here are AMAZING.  I am blessed to know them and each of their hearts. And I was completely blown away when I got the email telling me that I was chosen to share a piece of my own.

It has been a rough week.  A horrible, terrible, rough week.  And someday, when I have fully processed just how sad of a week this has been for our little family, I will blog about it and share my thoughts.  But for now, for today, being confirmed that my words have meaning, was exactly what I needed to hear.  I wasn't expecting this to be posted anytime soon, let alone on the front page, which is why I feel so incredibly honored.

In a way, it was comforting to be reminded that sharing my struggles is good and worthwhile. That my struggles in and of themselves can be good and worthwhile.  Not easy.  Not understandable.  But necessary for the growth of who I am and who I am still becoming as a person. And for that, this week, I am so incredibly grateful.  I am thankful that even in the midst of inexplicable pain and suffering, the Lord brings us to a new place.  To a place of relying on others and ultimately on Him.

With all of that said, here's a bit of my blog piece that I was honored to share with Postpartum Progress this morning.  Thank you to fellow Warrior Mom, Katherine Stone, for allowing me to share my story.

On Owning Your Struggle with Postpartum Depression

So proud to have Warrior Mom Brittany with us today, sharing her story and why she’s not afraid to be open about her struggle with postpartum depression.

I have dreamed my entire life of becoming a mom. Some of my fondest memories as a child are of mothering my plastic baby dolls and loving on them as if their cotton insides actually held a beating heart. As a doe-eyed teenager, I used to picture what life would be like when my boyfriend and I could finally marry and start a family together. And then suddenly, we were there. We had finished college, married and were living the dream life together in our favorite city. We talked about waiting to have babies, but when it came down to it we wanted to share the memories we were making together with our children.

We started trying for a baby, and before long I was pregnant and barefoot. Literally … I went barefoot to one of my baby showers. We spent nine blissful months “oohing” and “aahhing” over blurry ultrasound photos, meticulously decorating a nursery and waiting anxiously for our baby girl to arrive.

And then she was born. Blonde and blue-eyed and all 6 lbs 9 oz of her was perfect. I remember holding her the day she was born. She was bundled like a burrito and sleeping so peacefully in my arms. My husband remarked that she was like a tiny angel. That night we took rotating hour-long shifts to stay awake with her while the other would sleep. We worried that if we left her alone for all but one minute we would wake to find our baby not breathing and our dream dissolved into thin air. Maybe this first night was a foreshadowing of the anxiety-ridden days to come. 

You can read the rest of the blog post here.  

Next Friday I am excited to be the guest blogger for another one of my favorite sites Just.Be.Enough. It too is an incredible site.  Don't we all, deep down, just want to be enough? I love the ladies who run this site because that's what they encourage.  Living to be enough.

Can't wait to share my own "Just be enough" story with you next week,

Brittany

DIY: Mosaic Mirror

In light of all of the serious posts I've shared lately, I figured it might be time to lighten up the mood and share one of our DIY projects that we've been working on.  I'm a little proud of myself for this one because it actually wasn't an idea that I borrowed from Pinterest.  

Last spring, my boss taught me (and our resident crafters) how to make mosaic birdhouses.  So a few months back I got the idea to create a mosaic mirror for our formal entryway/living room.  I started by collecting various plates and pottery in various blue and green shades.  I bought from The Dollar Tree and from the Salvation Army (during their holiday 50% off sales).  In total, the plates and pottery cost $5.

Next, I bought a flat piece of solid wood... this was a score I found in the "as is" section of Ikea for just $3.99.  I'm not sure what it was originally intended to be but it was perfect (and cheap!) for this project.

This round mirror also came from Ikea for $15.00.

We used the product "Liquid Nails" ($4.00) to attach the mirror to the backing.

These "C Clamps" were from Home Depot and cost under $1.00 each.

We left them on for 24 hours to make sure that the liquid nails was completely dry.

 I've discovered that one of the ways I stay sane in this journey of parenting is to always, always involve my daughter in my projects.  It would be easy to brush her away and tell her to go play toys.  But really, what does that accomplish?  I would feel annoyed and she would have her feelings hurt.  She's three and she wants to be just like her mommy.  So, I let her join in.  And this was no exception.  Watch my rock star girl as she shatters some dishes and pottery.  This was definitely our favorite part!

My beautiful girl!

See?  Doesn't she look so excited! 

Next we used clear tile glue ($3.00) to attach the broken plates and glass.  

When all of the pieces were glued on... we took a several day break.  This was tough work!

Eventually we got to the messy part.

Plaster of Paris is a powder that, when mixed 2 parts to 1 part water, creates....goop. Or grout.  Whatever. Regardless, it was messy.  We also mixed in some gold acrylic paint to give the color a tint...which we found out didn't do much of anything in the end.

Yes, that's my absolute STUD of a husband!  

We (completely) covered sections of the tile with the grout mix.  A note to anyone who tries this project- the grout does dry fast.  When it says 6-8 minute drying time on the container, it really means 4-5 minutes.  If you cover too much of the tile, you won't be able to wipe it off in enough time and you'll be using a razor blade to scrape grout off of the colored tiles.  Like me below...

Wipe the tile off with a sponge or a towel that you don't mind throwing out after the project.  Make sure you have a bucket of water nearby to rinse and re-rinse the towel.

And finally...

The finished product!  We're very excited with how it turned out!

In total the project cost us around $25 ($40, if you figure that we used $15 of an Ikea Gift Card).  It was a lot of work but we both agree, creating something together (as a family, no less) holds much more meaning to us than if we had slapped down our debit card and bought a mirror from Target. 

Next up, I'm finishing this Pinterest find "tutu table" for Mack's bedroom!  I'm hoping that when I share it with you, it will look as cute as the one in this picture :)

Putting Out The Fire

I haven't struggled with postpartum depression in over 20 months.  But hey... who's counting? :) What I do still struggle with is panic attacks.  The only way I can think to distinguish between the two is like this:  postpartum depression was a fire that lit immediately after I gave birth to my daughter and continued to burn out of control until I took control.


Panic attacks come upon me like the leftover burning embers from the fire that was once postpartum depression.  These burning embers flake from the died down fire and come upon me at inopportune times during life. Over the past year or two, I've learned to recognize signs and signals that tell me I am close to having one.  My husband and I have (finally!) nailed down caffeine as a significant catalyst for my attacks.  Which is frustrating on so many levels- the most frustrating being that after Mack was born, my sleep deprived self was inhaling regular coffee by the pound.  Had I known three years ago that my anxiety was being severely heightened by caffeine, it would have been cut from my diet immediately.


I can tell when an attack is coming on because my pulse begins to race.  My concentration falters and I often find myself pacing our house and ringing my hands.  Things that wouldn't usually bother me (like extra loud noises or the sound of my little girl whining about something trivial) suddenly become things that set me on edge.  My mind becomes a mess of anxiety, overcome with insecurities and accusations that remind me of my past.


Sometimes I can defend against these attacks and strong arm them.  Other times, I lose myself to them, and I find myself an inconsolable, blubbering mess, unable to rationalize against the malicious thoughts that have invaded my reality.  As much as I am grateful to be beyond the dark cloud of PPD, these panic attacks do make me feel like a freak. I've had them in the middle of a Subway sandwich shop, in the bathroom stall of a church, and recently at a friend's wedding.  And it's hard.  Hard to know that people have seen you at your worst.  Hard to know that you have made a fool of yourself in a public setting and have given others the chance to judge as though you can't handle life.  It's hard to realize that sometimes you really can't handle life like you want to.


Katherine Stone, the founder of the incredible site Postpartum Progress, describes her own experience with a perinatal mood disorder.  She writes, "Before, back then, I believed the real me was the person full of anxiety.  The person who was and would always be ill.  The person who was not and would never be fierce.  I was never going to be loved by my children and would never be a good mom.  I believed those things."


And sadly, I did too.


After Mack was born, and the "baby blues" didn't end within the first few weeks, I convinced myself that I was meant to live like that.  I thought that part of having a child, was dying to myself and learning to cope and complacently live like that.  I know, it sounds absolutely pathetic.  And yet, this is what I actually believed.  I wish more than anything that I could go back to my (then) self and shake the living daylights out of whoever that girl was.  I wish I could tell her to relax and let the baby cry sometimes.  To tell her everything would be okay and that life would become filled with more joy than she could have ever dreamed of.


I guess the biggest difference between my experience with my (then) postpartum depression and my (now) panic attacks, is what I truly believe about myself when all is said and done. When I've finally silenced the overwhelming voices in my head and the shaking of my body has calmed.  What do I really and truly believe about myself as a mother?  What do my daughter and husband see when they look at me?  What do I believe now that I didn't and couldn't believe back then?


I cried the other day, as I read Katherine Stone's experience of returning to reality after one of her panic attacks.  She writes, "Now, I am awaiting the moment when I go back to feeling like the real me.  It might be later today.  If not, it will most certainly be tomorrow.  I'll go back to feeling strong and fierce and as though the ground I'm standing on is not buckling.  This, right now, is not me.  This thing is the thing that tries to deter me.  I will allow it a few minutes to do that, but then I will go back to me.  I am a good mother."


I cried, because I resonate so strongly with every word that she wrote.  This person who is still overcome by occasional bouts of panic--this woman is not me.  It is not who I am.  It is not who I will ever be.  Those fears of being a bad mother, they are gone.  The feelings of being crushed by the weight and responsibilities of motherhood?  They don't suffocate me anymore. And even in the midst of my occasional panic attacks, I now know and believe these in the deepest parts of my heart:


I am an excellent mother. 
In this place and time, I am meant to be a mother.
I bring joy to my daughter and my husband each day.
I am strong and resilient.
I am brave. 
On my most difficult days, I will survive.
Anxiety does not control me.  
Fear does cripple me.
I know how to love. 
I know how to be loved. 
I do both well.
I am an excellent mother.

"She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future." Proverbs 31:25

Are You Mom Enough?

I replay a lot of memories from the first year of Mack's life.  Many memories are wonderful while others I would like to forget and pretend they never existed. There is one memory I find particularly humorous as well as equally horrendous.  

We had just picked up our 6-month-old from the church nursery.  It was wet and rainy in Chicago so JB ran to the parking garage to get the car.  While I stood in the lobby waiting, two elderly women begin to "oooh" and "ahhh" over Mack.  This wasn't unusual so I played along. At some point, the "small talk" turned to the topic of breastfeeding.  How and why, I'm still not sure but I can say without a doubt that I was not the one to steer the conversation in this direction.  The fact that I'm addressing this story in a public blog is actually surprising to me since any topic of female anatomy usually makes me blush.

I remember halting all of my participation in the conversation at this point.  I let the two elderly women take over and I was generally interested to hear what they would say and how the conversation would play out.  Perhaps this was my first mistake.  Maybe, I should have taken my squirmy baby and made a run for the rainy streets rather than wait for the safety of my car.  But I didn't.  I stayed and found myself in the crossfire of two judgmental, old hags.  

...Oops, did I just write that?

I listened.  I listened as they talked together about God's purpose for breastfeeding, how breastfeeding is the natural, God intended way for babies to be fed.  At this point I couldn't necessarily disagree with anything I was hearing but none-the-less, because of my horrible six week, hell-of-an experience with breastfeeding, I was beginning to blow steam from my corner of the room.  

Do I believe that breastfeeding is the most nutritional way for a baby to be fed?  Absolutely.  Do I believe that God's original intent was for mothers to feed their babies in this way? Yes. Do I believe that it is the best option for every mother out there, today? No, I absolutely do not.  In a perfect world, every mother would deliver her baby and he or she would immediately take to feeding from the breast.  We don't live in a perfect world though. We live in a fallen world. My baby and I fought tirelessly to make breastfeeding work.  In the end, it was not the natural, God intended way for me to feed my daughter.  For us, the most bonding and nurturing took place with her at my breast.... while I fed her from a bottle.  

With all of that said, I'll get down off of my soap box and tell you how the conversation took an even greater turn for the worst.  As I stood listening to these two women converse back and forth, one of them turned to Mackenzie.  She looked directly at her, smiled and said in a chipper voice, "You're such a happy baby.  You must be breastfed." 

Oh. No. You. Didn't.  That was all I could think.  That is all I can still think to this day.  I love old people.  I work with old people for God's sake.  But never before have I wanted to all out sucker punch an old woman.  As far as I'm concerned, this old lady might as well have written the headline for Time Magazine's May issue which begs the question to all non-breastfeeding moms out there, "Are you mom enough?"

I left the church that day feeling angry, guilty, judged and just plain flabbergasted by the nerve of these  women.  But the saddest part, is that, like these women, Time Magazine's recent issue has demonstrated an unfortunate truth.  There are actually moms out there who pit themselves against other moms, and build themselves up, surely convinced that they are making better choices for their child(ren) than other moms.  To this I ask: Where is the support?  Where is the encouragement? Where is the camaraderie that can be found just in the basic fact that we are ALL moms who are trying our damn hardest to love our kids and give them everything they need?

I have struggled greatly with this concept since giving birth to my daughter.  And maybe it all goes back to our inherent desire to be seen as "Wisteria Lane" type moms.  But really, when I'm talking to another mom about how my daughter just can't get the hang of potty training, I don't care to hear about how my parenting style is the problem.  If you ask me, that's judgment.  That's you telling me in your "ever-so-smug" way, that you are doing it "better". What I really want and need, is for you to tell me, "She's going to get it!"  or "Hang in there, toilet training was hard for us too!"  When I'm exhausted and having a day where I feel like I can't do anything right as a mother, the last thing I need is for another mom to showcase her child as an angel, all the while helping to build my "Failure Mom" plaque even larger and shinier.

I'm not writing to bash or criticize Time Magazine, Dr. Sears or even his attachment parenting philosophy.  Although I will admit, after seeing the front cover's bold headline, I was quite prepared be hot headed and angry at whoever wrote the article.  Oddly enough, I finished reading and found myself wondering why the headline, "Are You Mom Enough?" was even on the cover.  I didn't come away from the article convinced that it actually made any headway with convincing society of Dr. Sears' successful child rearing style.  If anything, I felt like parts of the article took aim at mocking him and his followers.  More than likely, the title was a gimmick to sell the issue and draw in readers.  I read it... so it worked!

My purpose in writing today is primarily to vent.  Don't we all just need that sometimes?  I also love to encourage my momma friends out there who are having a rough time.  Because whether we would like to admit it or not, we all have those days.  And please, please don't be one of those who looks snootily at the mom in the grocery store who just can't seem to keep her kid in line.  She might just need a big hug and for someone to tell her she's doing the best she can.

The other night, Mack was having trouble sleeping. Although, we try not to make rocking her an every night event, I am fully aware that these moments are becoming fewer and farther between now so on this particular night, I picked her and her tattered blue elephant up and we all snuggled together.  As I quietly rocked her and "Ted", I heard her whisper, "I love you Momma.  I'm ready to go in my own bed now."  I whispered "I love you too" and tucked her back underneath the covers.  As I fell asleep that night I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with joy.  I didn't need to breastfeed my daughter to bring her to this place.  She is safe and secure.  She knows she is loved and she is happy. And at the end of the day, If my daughter is all of these things, then I know I must be doing something right.  And I can fall asleep and rest easy knowing that, I am mom enough.

"As for me, I've chosen to follow a simple course; come clean.  And wherever possible, live your life in a way that won't leave you tempted to lie.  Failing that, I'd rather be disliked for who I truly am than loved for who I am not.  So I tell my story.  I write it down.  I even publish it.  Sometimes this is a humbling experience.  Sometimes it's embarrassing.  But I haul around no terrible secrets." - Joyce Maynard "For Writers: Writing for Health"

When I began this blog a year ago, I had no intention of airing out my dirty laundry.  I was looking for a fresh start.  I wanted something that would be therapeutic for me and a place that I could post DIY projects and pictures of my kid.  And it has been that.  But it has also been so much more.  At some point I began to write about real life. About my real life.  And at some point, all inhibitions were thrown out the window.  At the same time I was exploring this new comfort level of writing, I also began to discover other blogs and sites written by mothers who have been experiencing the joys and pains of motherhood like me.  And many of them aren't afraid to write about the tough nitty gritty parts.  These women have been absolutely inspiring.  Freeing for me really.  I've discovered a network of friends and allies I didn't know even existed.  

In her blog Laughing Through Motherhood, Melinda writes in one of her recent posts,  "I used to receive a lot of comments (that I never approved, because they hurt so bad) that consisted of the following: "What if your daughter grows up and reads this? What if your son reads this? The internet is forever. Your kids will hate you if they find out you ever felt this way. I feel so sorry for them. I want to adopt them. You are so lucky to be pregnant when there are so many infertile couples who would kill for a baby. Guess what? Fuck that. You know what a depressed woman in the deepest, loneliest hole of her life needs? Support. Love. Understanding. You know what I got? None of that. You know where I found it? Other people's blogs. That's why I'm back, and I'm ready to talk about it. I want to get this out of my system, and if someone out there going through the same thing finds this, I want her to know she's not alone. Because loneliness is the worst feeling ever."

And, while I probably won't be using such colorful language in my future posts, in a sense, I applaud Melinda for telling it how it really is.  There have been times in my journey over the past three years that the closest people in my life just have not been there. And then there have been others that have come out of the nowhere and have surprisingly been there through it all.  It's incredible to me really.  But I'm really not writing today to rehash bad memories and old hurts.  I'm writing because I've been inspired.  By the blogger moms like Melinda and other Warrior Moms out there who aren't afraid to admit that they've been through some tough times.  These moms are the moms I connect with because they are transparent and real.  

And so, I guess my blogging style has probably taken a turn for the better (I hope).  I will still post DIY projects and fun pictures of life with our little family.  But I plan to post more of my writing. Of my heart.  I hope I don't scare some of my readers off, but if I do, that's okay. And will my daughter someday read my posts?  I hope so.  I hope she reads my words and that she sees a mom who was honest and real.  I hope she is inspired by my love for life, for her and for other people. I hope that she can see deeply into the wounds of my heart and painful parts of life but that she can see how good can come from pain.  And I hope she takes my honesty and uses it for her own good and the good of those around her.  

I love Joyce Maynard's quote.  She writes, "I'd rather be disliked for who I truly am than loved for who I am not."  And that's where I am in my life.  I'm so exhausted from trying to maintain an image for myself and others.  I'm going to share what's really on my heart and hope that you'll come along for the ride...