It's Been Weird, 2016

If I were to describe 2016, it would be with these words: it's been weird.

This year began on bed rest, fighting against high blood pressure and the very real possibility that I could have a stroke and die. And also lose my baby. I don't think I fully understood all of this until after I gave birth (yes, in MY WORLD emergency C-sections, regular C-sections and vaginal deliveries/natural birth--whatever you call it--are considered 'giving birth'. You, my friend, are allowed to have your own opinion on this topic and I'm just fine with that).

Every emotion possible filled my new mom heart. Joy, anger, sadness, hope, love...Finally, I settled on gratefulness and
thank God every day for my sweet--but ornery--little boy.

I painfully tried breast feeding for six weeks while attempting to recover from a c-section. Most days, I spent alone with my new baby fast asleep in my arms, staring out the nursery window while I waited for Kelly to get home from work. I cried. I ached. I felt hopeless. I laid awake in the rare moments sleep was available and prayed endlessly about my short milk supply, my loneliness (where had everyone gone?), and constantly feeling overwhelmed.

Finally, with pleas from a concerned husband, I gave up trying to breastfeed. I gave up pumping. I just gave up. And though Facebook has its wonderful (that's sarcasm) debates about all things breastfeeding related, I really could have cared less what any one thought about my efforts. When tears flow too often and too easily, it's generally a sign something has to give. In this case, it was breastfeeding.

Two doctors I trust (one literally with my life) simultaneously told me, "You have done an amazing job. Now let it go. Don't dwell on it. Don't feel guilty. Just move forward." I had a moment of clarity. Facebook is just a platform for anyone to say what they feel, bully and attack without compassion, empathy or understanding. We are all different. We all have different thoughts, ideas and opinions. Eventually, with maturity, we'll all get to where I am on this topic: total peace. What's best for me, won't be best for you. And vice versa.

Spring brought on its usual storms. Tornadoes. Thunderstorms. Baby screams. New parents trying to figure out how to take care of a newborn. Mountains of soiled laundry and dirty diapers. There were moments of complete sunshine. Then rain and darkness followed. But that's life. It ebbs. It flows. It cuts off the supply. Then oversupplies. And we roll with the punches.

Summer was filled with lots of love and reflection. I finally came to the conclusion that I have a hard time asking for help. I have spent years doing everything for myself, by myself, never relying on anyone else. So, in the moments I needed desperate help, I would internalize and push forward. This put a strain on every relationship in my life until I prayed for strength and wisdom. And summertime brought a lot of that. I've had to learn how to tell people what I need and when I need it. They won't always be able to provide me with what I need, but if I'm brave enough to vocalize it, the stress and anxiety usually subside.

 

Fall was filled with deep grief and loss. Kelly and I both lost family members. Some expected, others a complete surprise.

We decided that life is fragile. Too fragile. And so we purposed to spend more time as a family. More time together. Less time out in the world. Less time giving what we do not have to give. It has caused a lot of tension, strain, and hard moments. People don't like when you decide family comes first. They lecture, nag and talk at you until they're blue in the face. And because Kelly and I value our relationships, we listened. Then we talked to each other, we prayed, and we still felt the same. I suppose it's because grief changes you. It reminds you that each breath is a gift.

I learned a great lesson this past autumn: tell people--AND SHOW THEM--you love them, you value them, you're thinking of them. Even if you're busy. Even if you're scared. Just say it. Don't wait. Life is short.

Winter has been cold, but quiet. For that, I am grateful. I'm grateful for the hours we spend watching Kung Fu Panda 3, Zootopia, and Home. I'm grateful for the hours we spend with our little one. Christmas Day we put him in his truck from his Uncle Zach and pushed him back and forth across the living room floor while still in our pajamas  He belly laughed the whole time. So we did, too. It's moments like those I feel nothing but pure joy. Joy has been hard to find this year. But every time I look into the face of my son, I find that joy. And I see hope.

I don't know if you've ever fought for your life and your child's at the same time, but it changed me. It made me a little more fearless. More scared. More focused. More honest. More real. I can't control everything. Surprise, surprise. I've stopped trying. I just take life one day at a time now--sometimes just an hour at a time.

Most days, the house is a mess. There's a pile of laundry collecting dirty socks. The sink overflowed with dishes. But you'll most likely find a relaxed me sitting on the living room floor, covered in baby slobber, in stretchy pants, surrounded by a sea of toys. One of my son's hands will be firmly touching my arm while the other is busy about life. As long as he lets me sit there with him, watching, teaching, comforting and engaging, I will. It's a great privilege. I know it is. Because one day, he will take his hand off my arm and leave my side for good. Becoming a mother puts things into perspective...for most people.

I've spent a lot of time carrying the burdens of others--carrying the opinions of others--for too many years. My son has given me an invaluable gift. He's given me the gift of release. So, I've let things go. He may lick the floor sometimes. My dogs' muddy paws may tread across my freshly mopped floor. My husband may surprise me with a load of dirt piled high in the front yard.

But I've learned to just take a deep breath and let it go.

Life is short. I get to decide what's most important each day. And most days, it's definitely not the dirty floor.

It's been a sad, hard, joyous, grateful year.

It's been weird, 2016.