my homework from my therapist over the past two weeks has been to stop apologizing unnecessarily.
it’s going great. well, sort of. i don’t know when it started exactly, but somewhere along the line, i came to sincerely believe that i am more compatible, hirable, amiable and attractive when i hold a perpetual apologetic posture. and now i’m 30 and i apologize to inanimate objects when i bump into them. i add unnecessary exclamation marks in emails and begin conversations with “i’m sorry if i did this incorrectly” knowing full and well i made no such mistakes. it’s more than a habit at this point, it’s ingrained and innate. and i hate it. i really do. i hate that i feel the need to apologize for taking up space, for speaking, for having questions and opinions and ideas. often times, i feel that i need to apologize before i’ve even said or done anything. like some sort of preemptive apology, just in case. and i feel this is something that’s entirely exacerbated in motherhood. i fight myself internally all day. you’re tired? how dare you? there are people who would kill to feel tired because they’re caring for a child of their own. you’re upset about the house being in utter chaos? well one day your children will grow up and move out and you’ll be wishing you had messes to clean and rooms to tidy. your boob hurts because your baby is teething and using you as a teether? well, remember when you couldn’t nurse your firstborn beyond 6 months? what if that was what it was like now? ungrateful, you are. back and forth, back and forth. it’s as though in recognizing how fortunate i am, i’m somehow not allowed to feel anything but warm and fuzzies about motherhood. and that would be all fine and dandy…if motherhood wasn’t such a complete and utter shit show. my home looks like a small bomb exploded in it every single day. i try to create yummy nutritious meals that my 2 year old promptly throws on the floor. there are days when it feels like no one listens to me. not even the dog. *not knocking the husb here, but he’s working and has to shut out the madness in order to focus. which leaves me to tiptoe among the cars and fruit snacks and pacis and crayons. unload the dishwasher. reload the dishwasher. one load of laundry. then another load. again and again and again. and i’m not complaining! all i’m saying is i get lost in it sometimes. and i think a huge part of that has to do with the fact that caregivers are made to feel like they have to apologize for having completely natural responses to things that are difficult. on wednesday at 4:07 pm drew asked what i needed and i told him, in full sincerity, that i needed him to run me over with the car. he told me to go lie down. i refused, there was too much work to do! he insisted. by 6:10 pm i had had rested for a total of 55 minutes and i felt like an ENTIRELY different person. night and day. maybe people aren’t crazy. maybe the crazy thing is that so many individuals feel the same way i do. they just need 55 minutes! and yet we beat on; with our heads down, saying we’re sorry and excusing ourselves when we’ve done nothing to warrant an apology. my name is laura and i like it when my house is clean and everything is in the proper place. i like to make things tidy and neat. it’s how i show that i care. by leaving places and things better than they were when i found them. and i’m not sorry. i’ve been reflecting a lot as i embark on this new adventure of starting a brand new decade. not only do i want to be better about apologizing, i want to be better about giving myself permission to feel things freely. i’m allowed to be pissed when my kid draws on the walls or throws food or knees me in the boob for the 87th time before 9 am. i’m allowed to feel bummed when things i’ve spent time, energy and effort on go wrong. i’m allowed to need 55 minutes or any other amount of time to regroup and reset. and it’s important for me to call these things out because they are the very things i can’t remember when i’m in my own head and can’t get out sometimes. i hope that if you need to give yourself permission to do or feel or say something, this serves as a friendly reminder that it’s ok to grant yourself just that. a huge part of why we feel crazy is because we tell ourselves that we shouldn’t feel the way we feel. and in doing so we push ourselves to the point of feeling like we ought to be run over by a car. so let’s stop! here and now let’s make a conscious decision to stop apologizing and grant ourselves permission to feel whatever the fuck we’re feeling! good, bad or ugly, we can’t make it right if we’re not honest with ourselves and with those we love. so let’s get after it. down with the unnecessary exclamation points. we are so much more than that. you are so much more than that. don’t be sorry.
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remember those sections of style magazines that asked you to categorize your body type as “pear-shaped” “athletic” or “long and lean” and then told you which american eagle jeans would look best on you?
there were also the sections where you chose the shape of your face to see which celebrity you looked like. i used to convince myself i had a heart shaped face just so i could brag to my sisters that i looked like reese witherspoon. anyway, at this stage in my life, i have decided my body shape can be likened to that of the red m&m. short. sweet. round. with impossibly skinny ankles. my body has never done anything extraordinary. don’t get me wrong, i’m healthy! everything works as it should, and for that i am most grateful. what i mean is, beyond daily functioning, i don’t have any physical skills of great significance. i’m not fast. would 10/10 die in a zombie apocalypse. or the hunger games or, possibly, a large concert like lalapalooza. i’m not strong. the extent of my physical strength is carrying 3 bags of groceries on each arm. and i’m sure as shit not graceful. in the poise and dexterity department, i’m like a baby giraffe trying to walk for the first time. i also trip and fall down a lot. like, a lot a lot. all this to say i am not, and never have been, a particularly impressive physical specimen. what i lack in physical skill i like to think i make up for in wit and humor but to be honest, i’m pretty average. and i am 100% cool with being average. average has brought me almost 30 years with minimal bumps and bruises. not to mention i’ve avoided having to run one of those 5K races some (insane) people do on thanksgiving. i’ve never considered my body to be “a miracle.” i’ve never considered anything my body has done to be especially amazing or noteworthy. that is, until i had children. growing a human is the single craziest thing i’ve physically ever done (and i tried crossfit once!). during each of my pregnancies i found out new things about my body that i had never known before. i also threw up a lot and pooped my pants in a whole foods. but that’s a story for another day. after doug was born, i was a hot mess. physically healing from a c-section, attempting to nurse a baby who straight up did not like my boobs and not sleeping a wink. it was a whole thing. my body didn’t feel strong or amazing, it felt broken and leaky and weak. and that took a toll, mentally. after charlotte was born, i prepared myself for a lot of the same physical things i had previously experienced with doug. but it was different the second time around. it was like my body knew what was coming. my milk came in without issue and charlotte took to nursing like a champion. physically, i healed quickly, and without issue. for the first time, i felt like my body knew what it was doing. and it was doing a good job! better than average! huzzah! now, don’t misunderstand me: my body didn’t do anything wrong when doug was born. and just because i wasn’t able to feed doug exclusively with my physical body does not mean i was inept or broken. i simply wasn’t in a place, physically, where i could provide for him in that way. that doesn’t make me a bad mom. that makes me a regular human. and i have no way of knowing if my body will recover as well as it did with charlotte if we choose to (lord willing) have another baby. but for now, i’m in a groove. and it’s a nice groove! i’m still not physically strong. or fast. or graceful. i don't know if my face is heart shaped like reese witherspoon’s or if i’m more pear or full shaped. i do know there are 0 pairs of american eagle jeans that would look flattering on me. and that’s ok. when i look in the mirror, i don’t always like what my reflection shows. but i don’t feel average. my body cares for itself and for my family. i sustain another person with something i make all on my own. that’s special. and i may look more like the red m&m than a pear or a string bean, but it seems to me, in the end, we all end up looking like food anyway. i am thankful to be healthy and in a position to nourish my body. i want my kids to grow up and love themselves and be grateful for the bodies they have, so i need to model that kind of self-appreciation. whatever your body shape may be and whether your face is heart-shaped like reese witherspoon’s or not, i hope you know that you have value and significance. if nothing else, your body has brought you to where you are right now. laughing about the thought of me wearing american eagle jeans. or pooping my pants in whole foods. and that’s something! you’re something! something special. and don’t you forget it. last tuesday, after returning home from savannah, i felt a tickle in my throat.
nothing crazy, just a tickle. then my nose started to run like a faucet and i thought: better not go out in public, everyone will think i have covid! lol laura hathaway, lol. by the time wednesday morning rolled around i was rocking a 102 degree fever and i felt like i had been jumped on by a thousand toddlers. aches. chills. complete loss of taste and smell. runny nose. cough. the works. i felt awful. i felt scared. i called my doctor. her advice was to get tested for covid. so, my saint of a spouse drove me to urgent care where i got an impressive amount of butt sweat on the sitting room chair and miserably awaited the results of my rapid test. positive. shit. shit shit shit. my first thought was my kids. specifically, doug. because i’m nursing, char gets my antibodies passed to her through my breastmilk (sidenote: how amazing is that!? biology, man. it’s nuts). but dougie is vulnerable, as he’s not old enough to be vaccinated. i had a slight panic attack when i got the news (which didn’t help the butt sweat situation) but the doctor told me how to help reduce the spread within my home and assured me that it was safe to nurse. it was decided that i likely contracted the virus while traveling through the atlanta airport, where were many people not wearing masks. of course though, it’s impossible to pinpoint exactly when and where i was exposed. i sent messages to my girlfriends who were in savannah with me to keep them abreast of the situation. i felt neurotic, retracing every step i had taken. i tried to think of everything i touched. the seconds when i took off my mask to eat or drink in the airport. when did i get this? unfortunately, based on our estimation of when i first contracted the virus, by the time i had a positive test, our home was already hit in terms of infestation. i had been kissing and loving on both of my kids since i returned home on sunday. we had all spent time together in multiple rooms in the house. my home, much to my horror, had become a covid hot spot. because of me. my doctor told me i could wear a mask around the kids and isolate from everyone, but unfortunately, the damage had already been done. if anyone in my family was going to get it, i had already given it to them. i felt completely helpless. i got vaccinated this past spring in an effort to protect myself and those around me and here i was unable to protect the ones i most desperately wanted to keep safe. it was emotionally taxing. and on top of that, i couldn’t be helpful. i was essentially useless in terms of contributing to regular tasks during the day. plus, i felt like absolute garbage. by the grace of god, no one else in my home ever showed symptoms, nor did my friends from the trip. we are now nearing the end of our “stay away from the public, you gremlins” stage of quarantine and although i’m happy to be re-entering society (mainly, trader joes), i’m also scared and hesitant. i was careful. i did what the cdc said, i followed the guidelines, adhered to the rules. i got vaccinated. and i also got covid. and not only did i get it, but it took me down. completely out of commission. and that was with the vaccine. in the end, the double prick i received months ago did what it was supposed to do. my symptoms were relatively mild (even though they didn’t feel mild!) and the amount of time i presented them was much shorter than it would have been if i hadn’t been vaccinated. it’s also what likely protected drew against getting sick, despite all my covid germs. i share these things because i want everyone to know my intentions have always been pure. since the beginning of the pandemic, every choice drew and i have made has been sincerely in the best interest of our family and families around us. we’ve tried to be vigilant about staying safe and respectful of all who have worked so hard to eradicate this virus. all i’ve ever wanted is for everyone to be ok. and i would never tell anyone what’s best for them and their own body. all i ask is that you consider my family, as i’ve considered yours, when thinking about getting vaccinated. because i simply can’t bear the thought of one more person we love becoming someone we once loved. be safe. be well. be kind. let's take care of each other, yeah? i spanked my son today.
it was nap time. he was thrashing all over the bed and i had been trying for over an hour to help him calm his body down. “when you aren’t careful with your body, you can get hurt.” “when you aren’t in control of your body, you can hurt other people.” “because you are being unsafe with your body, i am going to hold you close so you don’t get hurt and so mommy doesn’t get hurt.” WHACK. i was hit with a flying limb (i’m not even sure if it was a foot or an arm). my reaction was so quick. i sat upright and thumped him on the bottom before the tingling from the hit had even subsided. mortified, i just stared at my son. i began to bawl and apologize to dougie through my tears. thankfully, he was completely unfazed and eventually he did stop fighting and gave into sleep. i’m tired. i’m so so tired. and i’m sad. i’m devastated and ashamed because today i wasn’t the mom i want to be. the mom i’ve wanted to be since i was a little girl playing with my american girl dolls. i feel as though i’ve let down my kids. my family. myself. i seek no validation in sharing this. i know tomorrow is a new day and two year olds are tough and being a new mom is exhausting. i think i just grieve because i know i’m never going to be the salt of the earth chill and laid back mom i hoped i’d be. i’m not a kumbaya mom. i don’t have a kumbaya kid. i live with anxiety and depression and i fight those battles alongside the “no, we can’t have ranch dressing for breakfast” and “yes, we have to wear pants to go to target” battles every day. i wish i was more patient. less stubborn. full of grace. but i’m not. i’m human. ridiculously flawed, constantly making mistakes and seeking perfection in an imperfect world. i don’t have single clue what i’m doing. the only thing i’m sure of most days is that i love my kids. even when i don’t always like them. as may turns to june it closes out mental health awareness month. if you are someone who fights ugly thoughts your mind creates for no reason i want you to know: you are not a monster. if you are a mom who gets angry and yells and yes, even spanks from time to time: you are not a failure. or an asshole. you are a regular person doing a job that is really fucking hard. we pick our battles in this life and though we make mistakes, i hold tight to the belief that most people are doing the best they can. i choose to be hopeful in the face of difficulty and positive even when things are yucky. amidst the craziness of the nap time from hell today i was able to call my people for support and encouragement. we aren’t wired to do things alone and man, am i thankful for the people in my corner. i write this now in cozy jammies with a milkshake in my hand and peace in my restless heart, knowing that tomorrow is a whole new day. i’m not going to get it right all the time. in all honesty, i’d say i’m more likely to get it wrong on any given occasion. but i’ll do my best and pray that my kids experience just enough trauma to make them funny and interesting to talk to at parties. hang in there, humans. some days are just bad. even in australia. so,
my toddler has been a righteous asshole lately. i was fairly warned, “terrible twos,” they said. feelings for days. happy then sad, then happy again. ups and downs from the moment he gets up to the moment he closes his eyes at night. having a two year old means you as the parent never do anything right. like, ever. for context, yesterday i incorrectly peeled an orange, read a touch and feel book all wrong, and made a smoothie with the incorrect ratio of yogurt to milk. where do i enter my name for mother of the year? each of these horrible mistakes resulted in some truly impressive meltdowns from my son. the waterworks flowed and the only way to soothe this poor child was to pick him up and hold him while he collected himself and, eventually, settled down. as i slowly swayed him from side to side, i reflected on what being a mom means to me. it’s hard to articulate but i find myself pontificating on this every year around mother’s day. i started to think about the “mama sway.” everyone knows the mama sway. it’s the gentle side to side rocking that’s universal in it’s effect of calming children young and old. no one teaches it to you. there isn’t a book on it or a youtube tutorial, you just know it. and it’s like a switch that’s activated when a weary child is placed in your arms. i’ve been swaying that sway since i was a little girl holding my baby sister, margaret. and i have dreamed of swaying my own children for as long as i can remember. for several years i had the privilege of swaying other people’s babies, acting as a stand-in mama. at times it felt like i swayed half of wauwatosa’s children while i was babysitting or nannying. further down the road, i rocked my students when they fell on the playground or became overcome with big feelings. and these days, i get to rock my own babies. my dream come true. because of this, it doesn’t bother me when doug needs a cuddle to calm down (although i’m calling bullshit on the orange thing. i know how to peel a clementine, dammit.). i don’t mind when char gets up for the 3737483298th time during the night wanting to eat and snuggle. these are moments for which i’ve prayed. these are moments that make me want to have more children despite truly disliking pregnancy. they are the sweet and tender moments no tells you about. the quiet pauses when all your child needs is you and a little sway. i like to think about all the moms around the world doing the mama sway. different countries, different languages, different backgrounds and religions and beliefs. all of us swaying our babies to sleep. i’m thankful to get to experience such moments. i’m grateful for those who swayed me when i was a child. i’m grateful for those who have shared their children with me over the years. loving them prepared me to love my own kids better. whoever you’re swaying this mother’s day, know that you are adored and valued and appreciated. you are worthy of respect and love and an uninterrupted trip to the bathroom. and if your arms are empty on this day, know that i see you and i am holding you in my heart. happy mother’s day, moms. here’s to us. xo i don't know what other writers do when they get "the itch."
no, not that itch. the writing itch. the feeling that there's something in your brain demanding to be translated to paper. for me, the itch usually comes when i'm trying to fall asleep. and in my experience, fighting the itch only leads to a sleepless night and a headache, so i choose to indulge and settle in with a cup of tea and my computer. i had to write an apology note to a friend the other day. i was an asshole. a total butthead. and i needed to say sorry. i literally wrote in the card, "i'm just feeling salty because i got fat and i'm having a hard time making another baby." 2020 has been a doozy, ya'll. and yet, that's no excuse for being a dick. i've been thinking a lot lately about the sanctity of friendships. specifically, female friendships. the truth is, i've always considered myself to be a good friend. but i think that sometimes i'm not so much being a "friend" as i am just being "friendly." being friendly is easy. to be friendly is to be polite, chatty, surface level pleasant. being a friend is messy. it's gritty, ugly, "you're being horrible and i love you too much to sit back and watch you go down this path," kind of stuff. not all the time, of course. but that side of things is certainly there. i think of it like this, "friendly" gets my instagram. filtered, pretty, polished fragments of my life that i choose to share and have complete control over, no matter what. "a friend" is more likely to get my google search history. scattered, manic, crazed, and definitely not cute. i have been a pretty shitty friend in the past. i've been selfish and reckless. i've chosen to be indifferent and uncaring when i could have chosen to be kind and compassionate. my mom always says that you can choose to be "right" or you can choose to be "relational." well, let's just say i've chosen "right" more times than i'm proud to admit. when i get hurt or upset i put my blinders on and become unfeeling to those around me. my anxiety and depression sometimes make it seem easier to put up walls and shut out my friends because in letting them in, i'm also letting in the discomfort that comes with growth. in short, when i'm sad or angry, i can't see past my own pain or acknowledge anyone else's. and instead of facing my issues and fears, i have a tendency to run (well, fast walk) in the opposite direction. and in doing so, i plow over my friends who mean so much to me. i don't disclose this for validation or sympathy. i share this because i want to take responsibility for the choices i've made and actively turn away from these selfish habits. i want my son to grow up and have strong, loving, respectful friendships like i have. i want my son to be a good friend. and he's going to be looking to me for an example of what that looks like. i'm incredibly fortunate to have many strong female friendships. i consider them to be some of my greatest blessings in this life. the women in my life are steady, wise, vulnerable, gracious and utterly delightful. i am truly the luckiest to have them in my corner. even when i'm an asshole. i encourage you to reach out to a friend. each day of this dumpster fire of a year holds so much uncertainty. and yet, the thing i know i can be certain of, is my friends. and for that, i am grateful. when i was a kid, i had chicken legs. i come from a long line of chicken legs, actually. my mom, my nana, her mom before that, you get the idea. anyway, these legs were ridiculous and i did nothing to help the situation by insisting on wearing doc marten sandals all year round. what about winter, you say? easy, i simply added socks! imagine a flamingo wearing bricks as shoes….that’s probably the best description i can offer. so yeah, super cute. and as much as i like to think i was a pioneer for women’s fashion at a young age, in hindsight i probably just spent most of my childhood walking around looking like an idiot. live and learn, right? in any case, i’ve long-since outgrown my sandal and socks phase but i’ve been thinking a bunch lately about my chicken legs from way back when. throughout my childhood, i was kind of a scrawny kid. again, not surprising because look at my mom and sisters but what changed as i got older is that i ditched my tiny frame when i was a teenager while my sisters stayed slim and slender. i swear one christmas break it was like my boobs sprouted, my braces came off, i figured out what contacts were and i somehow became a full blown woman. it was kind of like that scene from my big fat greek wedding, only i didn’t become popular or get to make out with john corbett. sigh. anyway, high school came and went and i remember being aware of my weight and size but even when i was discouraged about my self image, i took comfort in the tags in my clothes. the tags. sounds weird right? but it’s the truth. because even when i felt bad about body, i could remind myself that my pants were a 2 and my shirts were a S and those tiny tags made me feel better. gosh, you ever wish you could go back in time and just smack yourself? anyhow, then college came and the freshman 15 showed up and never left and i sort of just accepted that i wasn’t going to be “tiny” like my family anymore. and i was cool with it. really. because my tags said 6 or M and that was “average.” i was fine with average. average is the middle. i’m a middle child. everything checked out. after i graduated, my weight hovered around a number i was comfortable with and honestly i didn’t think about it much at all. it went up and down based on medicines i was taking, how active i was, what i was eating/drinking. usual stuff. then i got pregnant and i was sick as a dog and my weight dropped to my high school size. in a manner of months i went from M to S to L to S to L to XL. and i didn’t think it would matter much to me because i have this beautiful squishy baby who thinks i’m the tits and my husband loves me and i have a healthy relationship with my family and i eat kale sometimes and i talk to my therapist regularly and yada yada… but DAMN. the XL on my tags has been weighing heavily on my heart. i turn on my camera to take a selfie with doug and i find myself doing this weird sucking in/swallowing motion to try and make my neck look thinner? like, the fuck? i know how it sounds but it’s true! i have a picture of me in a swimsuit from the other day and i literally saw it compared myself to shamu. A WHALE. i have manic depression and anxiety and when i describe what it feels like to people i say that it’s like i can lay in bed and tell myself that the door is locked or the oven is off in my head but my body sort of involuntarily forces me to go check anyway. loving and appreciating my body sort of feels the same way. i can tell myself that i’m worthy and wonderful and brilliant but there’s this other force that just sort of usurps my positive affirmations and reminds me that i’m really just a fat lady with an extensive vocabulary and a really big sweet tooth. it’s like out of all the things i am i can only focus on what a tiny tag on the inside of my clothes says. XL. extra large. why is loving yourself so friggin difficult? loving people comes as naturally as breathing for me. just met? cool, i love you. love myself? naw, man it’s gonna be a no from me. may is mental health awareness month and i typically write something about having anxiety and depression. because it’s normal and people should talk about it because it’s really fucking lonely sometimes. when i think about mental health, i think about being a prisoner of my own mind. because for me, that’s what it feels like a lot. and whether i’m worried about my stove being on or sad because my pants don’t fit and i feel like the world is falling down around me there are always things that help me: my medicine. my therapist. my people. i don’t mean to tell you how to manage your emotions and feelings because what works for me may not work for you. but what i can tell you is this: taking medicine does not make you a failure. going to talk to a therapist doesn’t mean you have shitty friends who don’t listen. relying on routines to make you feel normal does not make you powerless. you are a magical fucking unicorn and you are worthy beyond measure. you are more than the size on the tag inside your clothes or the extra chin you see in your selfies. you are lovable and valuable and precious. and your worth is not and never will be correlated to any number on a scale or itchy ass tag inside your shirt. period. and if that’s hard for you to believe then i have only one thing to say to you... it’s really hard for me too. it doesn’t come naturally. i get it. but i’m gonna keep reminding you. because it’s true. and it’s important. and because reminding you reminds me as well. we all need to remind each other how shiny and special we are. so consider this your reminder. from me, with love. tomorrow i get to celebrate my second mother's day.
it feels more like my first mother's day, if i'm honest, because the one last year was during the blackout stage of mothering a newborn when you don't know what day it is and your boobs hurt all the time. i've been thinking a lot about the different roles that moms play on any given day. the hats they wear. the number of times they unload the effing dishwasher. the schedules they balance. the way they keep things moving even in the most uncertain of circumstances. i also recognize that there are a lot of people who aren't mothers biologically but who take on that role for the people they love. mother's day is complicated for so many people i care for and respect. and the more i think about it the more i realize that the reason for that probably has something to do with the complexities of humans in general. relationships are messy. death is messy. loss is messy. love is messy. families are messy. regardless of how you spin it, happy or sad, it's likely that mother's day unearths some feelings. and with the current state of the world it makes perfect sense to be feeling anything and everything this mother's day weekend. i personally feel all the contradictions. i'm so happy to spend mother's day with my son and drew. i'm also sad to be away from my extended family. i'm restless because i'm craving human interaction the way one craves caffeine or chocolate. and i'm bummed because although we're celebrating, it almost feels like we shouldn't be in a strange way. emotions are fun, huh? anyway, i suppose what i'd really like to do is encourage you, whoever you are. whatever kind of mom you are, thank you. thanks for keeping things moving. thanks for supporting, loving, nurturing and caring for your people. thanks for showing up. thanks for helping us make sense of the world. even during a time when nothing seems to make any sense. and by george, thanks for unloading the perpetually full dishwasher. each night when i put baby doug to sleep i tell him how much i love him. then i thank him for being my kid. being his mom is my favorite thing to be. he usually responds by drooling on me. and i think that's his way of saying he loves me back. moms, you rock. thanks for making the world go round. i will never stop admiring your grace and grit. celebrating you this day and everyday. the other day i took douglas to cincinnati children's hospital to have his hips checked. it's a routine protocol for babies who are born breech to ensure that dysplasia hasn't occurred. thankfully, the ultrasound scan came back perfectly normal and his hips are in ship-shakira-shape. a truth that for many other children we saw that day, was not the case. as i pushed my healthy happy boy in his stroller through the glossy halls of the hospital, we were met with the faces of sick children i have seldom seen in real life. the faces reserved for the gut-wrenching saint jude's hopsital commericals that come out around christmas time and particularly horrific episodes of grey's anatomy. we saw parents in waiting areas with cups of coffee and a look of fatigue i have never known. the kind of tired, i would guess, that comes with having a child who is sick. relentless in nature. unkind and unwavering. as we sat before going back for doug's ultrasound i looked around at all the different children waiting to be seen. young children. old children. babies. someone's baby. every race, gender, social-economic class, ethnicity and beyond. children and their loved ones with dreams and hopes and ambitions and goals. brought together because of a shared commonality: being unwell. that's the thing about illness. it doesn't discriminate. i talked to the technician who performed doug's ultrasound as she worked. i told her how humbled i was. how torn apart i felt. gutted after spending less than an hour bearing witness to such pain. i asked her how she did it. how she combated the cold truths hidden beneath the surfaces of the mickey mouse murals, brightly colored elevators and princess stickers. she was so bright and cheery and utterly delightful. i can't imagine the sadness she's seen. perhaps even felt herself. the terrible results she's had to place flatly on her expression, because she isn't at liberty to share them with the families. she simply smiled at me. she told me matter-of-factly that even in the most dire of circumstances things could always be worse. and i suppose she's right. then she told me that my son's hips were perfectly ok, and that she wasn't supposed to tell me that until the doctor looked at the results but she knows how moms worry. and she was right about that too. i've felt differently after visiting the hospital. stirred, in a way. i can't stop thinking about the faces i saw. i can't shake the images from my head. and i'm not upset about it. i want to remember those faces. those families. i hope they remain ingrained on my heart and etched in my memory so that the next time i start to feel sorry for myself i can jolt myself with a dose of reality. it's funny, i was thinking about teaching and how whenever we took prayer requests in school, no matter what, i always had a kiddo who asked to pray for sick kids. don't get me wrong, we prayed for a lot of dogs and cats, siblings, parents and the occasional "bird i saw on the side of the road this morning" (may he/she/they rest in peace) in kindergarten. but i always had someone raise their hand and ask to pray for kids who are sick. and i can't help but wonder now if that's because some of my students have also born witness to the sadness that encountered. to the reality that stares you down when you see a tiny human in distress. when you see anyone in distress. i sincerely hope that this post isn't taken as a pity token for families suffering with children who are ill. i mean it to be nothing of the sort. i only wish to offer my experience in the hopes that maybe someone out there has encountered something similar and has felt the uneasiness i have. i urge you to lean into it, and do something good with it if you can. that day, and every day since, i have said an extra "thank you" to the big man upstairs for the health of my child and prayed blessings and peace over families whose circumstances aren't as fortunate as mine. i have bad days. really bad days, sometimes. i have moments when i forget what a gift it is to have breath in my lungs, a heart in my chest and a brain in my noggin. moments when i forget what a gift it is to have a son and family who also share those things. and if you've had those moments too then i leave you with the words of the lovely ultrasound tech at children's hospital: it could always be worse. and i wish that for you, it gets better. and it will. xo this morning i attended my first workout class since having doug.
i wish i could tell you it’s because i want to better myself and self-care and all that but if i’m being honest, it’s because i have a wedding in three weeks and a dress i need to fit into. but hey, a reason is a reason right? anyway, i was agonizing last night as i thought about my 6 am barre class. i looked through my dresser trying to find an outfit that would make me look skinnier than i am. will my butt sweat show in these leggings? is this sports bra too tight? dear god, what if i lactate during class? the truth is, i’ve put on weight since doug was born and it’s not in the most flattering places. i’m never not sweating and i justify eating ice cream at any point during the day. don’t get me wrong, i’ve never been the skinniest or fittest lady in class, i’ve just never been the biggest. so this morning when my alarm went off, i started to think of all the reasons why this class was a bad idea. you’ll never make it. you’ll look like an idiot. you can’t do it. and again, i’d love to say that i practiced positive self-talk and banished all my negative thoughts with the power of confidence and beyoncé. but in reality i simply told myself “you gotta fit in that dress, girl” and promised myself i’d get an iced coffee afterwards. hey whatever works, yo. when i arrived at class (on time no less!) there was only one spot left in the studio. the sun wasn’t even up and this place was packed with women. women of every race, shape, size and age. each one there for her own reasons. i felt immediately better. i was truly encouraged by the sheer number of people in that room. now, pre-baby laura was a bit of a comparer in group fitness classes. am i doing it right? that lady’s feet are more pointed. that lady is doing better than i am. that lady is barely breaking a sweat does she even have sweat ducts!? i know they say just worry about yourself but come on, if they really wanted us to only look at ourselves they wouldn’t line the damn walls with mirrors. today was different though. when i couldn’t do something as well as my neighbor i didn’t feel ashamed or embarrassed. when i began to sweat profusely (about .838483 seconds after starting) i toweled off and embraced it. i looked around the room and instead of feeling inadequate i felt something totally different. something new. i felt proud. i felt strong. i felt grateful. i thought about how much my body has been through over the past year and all the good that’s come from the changes i’ve experienced. instead of noticing the clothes my peers were wearing i found myself noticing their scars. the ankle scars. the shoulder scars. the scars that aren’t visible but are surely there hiding beneath the surface. each of my classmates has a body that contains stories and pains and memories and life. i can get so bogged down by what i see in the mirror sometimes that i truly forget how amazing biology is. i made a human, who cares if i can’t do a friggin side plank? and you know what? even if my body didn’t make a baby it would still be hella amazing. i have a heart in my chest and a brain in my head that allow me to contribute good to the world everyday in tons of different ways. and what’s more: you do too! butt sweat be damned, our bodies are incredible and i choose to celebrate mine today. this doesn’t mean i won’t be back to my worrisome self tomorrow. heck, those feelings of self-doubt and inadequacy may even creep their way back into my mind this afternoon. but for right now, i’m going to celebrate what my body accomplished today because i was able to get out of my own head. and it is my sincerest wish that you experience that same kind of pride today too. in culture that seems hell-bent determined to make us feel bad about ourselves, we must take these small victories and cherish them. so whatever victory you’re celebrating today, just know i’m celebrating right along with you. forever rooting for you, lh |
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July 2020
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