measamom
Me As A Mom
28 posts
Making My Way In The World, Writing, Baking, & Momming.
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
measamom · 7 years ago
Text
While We Wait : Hope + Pray
Tumblr media
A few weeks before our second daughter Eloise was due, a friend shared a beautiful poem by George Herbert during small group. It was simply titled, Prayer. He invited us to sit for a minute and rest on a word or phrase that stuck out to us and then share our thoughts with the group. I was tired when we started, and though the poem was beautiful, I was having trouble connecting. Until I got ¾ of the way through. 
Maybe it was the hormones or tiredness, but I got choked up when I heard the third stanza. This old-timey poem offered me the exact right combination of words to express my deep-from-the-gut desire for the arrival of this new baby I was carrying. And the words were these: 
Softness and peace, and joy, and love and bliss.
Mr. Herbert had found a way to name my deepest longing for the season after Eloise’s birth. I wanted all those words to be true so badly. I didn’t even care about the context of the words within the poem. I just knew that they belonged to me now. I wept as I tried to explain this to the group. Because, of course, this is what I had hoped and longed for, for me and my Rubycakes just a few years earlier. And it’s not what we got. Could I dare hope and pray for it again?
I decided that night that I could. And I did.
And then, when our Eloise Pearl came, my husband presented me with a folder. Inside was a custom print by a dear friend who hand lettered those words just for me. Just for our family. Every time I see this gorgeous print hanging over our fireplace, I am thankful again, for the power of words and of prayer, of community and a season overflowing with goodness.
Tumblr media
(photos by the lovely Sarah Carter)
And so, as we wait again, for the arrival of yet another sweet girl, with Zoloft on standby, our counselor ready, and friends on the lookout, we dare to hope and pray for a season mercifully marked by:
Softness and peace, and joy, and love and bliss.
For us. And for you, too.
0 notes
measamom · 7 years ago
Text
JoJo The Great
Today marks one year since my grandma left us for Heaven. I had the honor of speaking at her memorial service. I tried to post something about 8 weeks after she died, but then we lost my father-in-law, and then a good family friend, and then a man who was like a second father to me during my childhood. How could I even pull apart the different strands of grief and loss? It was a lot to navigate. But today, as I mark a year, and mostly just because I miss her, I thought I’d share what I said at her funeral. 
Tumblr media
My name is Margaret Ann. I represent a band of hooligans lucky enough to have had Joan Kenny as our grandma, grandma-in-law, and great grandma.  I'm the oldest grandchild, along with Cory who would have been 33, Ryan Andrew, and his beautiful wife Tiffany, Jacqualin Marie, Colleen Elizabeth and Thomas Jackson. My husband Blaine and I are also the proud parents of Jack and Joan's great granddaughters, Ruby Elizabeth, 5 and Eloise Pearl, 2.
The art of letting go and holding on is clumsy. But it's a gift to not have to do it alone. Thank you for being here with us today. For grieving and celebrating right along side of us as we remember our beloved Jojo.
When Blaine and I found out we were expecting, Jojo was thrilled. She didn't waste any time thinking about the name she wanted this next generation of family to call her. And soon after, she proudly announced she'd come up with it: they'd be called The Greats, Jojo the Great and Jack the Great. She loved the name. We all did. Because, of course, it was true. She wasn't perfect, but she was great. Great at being a wife, a friend, a mom, a volunteer, a teacher, a golfer,  a grandma, and certainly at being Jojo.
How lucky we have been to have had such a fun, funny, creative, active, smart, thoughtful, adventurous, independent and sometimes even stubborn woman as our grandma. I don't know if growing up as an only child inspired her, but she was determined to make sure that this rag tag group of kids were deeply connected, even though thousands of miles separated our daily lives. She knew, along with so many other things, what we couldn't yet understand: these would be the people that would tie us to our shared history, that would become the friends that have known us our whole lives, and the only people that truly understand the good, the strange and the crazy you came from. It's by far, one the tops gifts anyone has given me.
Being with Jojo was usually quite a riot. Jojo, by the way, is a name Ryan gave her when he was learning to talk. Jojo always thought ahead and planned for our visits like crazy.  There were delicious homemade treats, silly surprises, and a revolving door of new card games.  Her work and preparation made us feel loved and important. She had happily and thoughtfully anticipated us. And we couldn't help but be excited. I think this might be the truest picture of hospitality. Making people feel loved, welcomed, and wholly invited into your life.
I specifically felt this during the summers when we did cousin camp. We'd arrive from Chicago and Dallas, respectively, for a few days without our parents. Jojo and Papa Jack took us on picnics, boat rides across lake Decatur, museum trips, hikes, and library visits. We played shuffle board games, were told we could eat s'mores till we threw up, helped make homemade vanilla ice cream with m&m's, played days-long card games, rode the train at Scovill Zoo and played at the park. They did their level best to make elite golfers out of us. It might be the only area in which they didn't win.
Beyond their amazing gift of hospitality expressed through fun and adventure, Papa Jack and Jojo have been the kind of grandparents that have always shown up. Birthday, holidays, plays, graduations, games, church events, weddings, showers. All of it. And in the hard things too, sicknesses, hospital stays, opening up their home, in heartbreak, and turmoil. What a gift, to have people that might not always agree with you or understand you, but always, always have your back.
Jojo taught us a lot: party potatoes are just as good as dessert, life is way more fun with friends, baiting a hook with a real worm won't kill you, you don't *have* to be good at golf to be part of the family, getting into a little trouble can be a little fun, and how to bake the best chocolate chip oatmeal cookies. All things we look forward to passing on in her honor with our own kids, grandkids, and if we're as lucky as her, great grandkids.  
And as we have all, kid by kid, turned into grown ups, she let us know how proud she was of us. For making important art and working at being good parents. For being such a good husband and so wise with your money. For being so smart and loyal, and wickedly good at your job. For being fierce and funny and independent, like her. For working so hard and being the real star of this whole operation. As an adult you don't know how much blessing and approval mean from someone you love and respect,until you get it. The older we got, the more she gave. Great again.
And at the end, as this shocking whirlwind of sickness surprised us all, the things she lamented most were those very 'showing up' things. It wasnt all the things she hadn't done or a list of regrets. But rather, all the things she wouldn't get to do. Watching TJ play volleyball in college and celebrating Coll's graduation. Dance at weddings. More great grandchildren. Seeing Ruby in her dual language kindergarten classroom this fall. Taking Eloise to the zoo.
The night Jojo passed, so peacefully and loved, into her new life in heaven, my two year old, Eloise, flipped open to the last page of her Jesus Storybook Bible for her bedtime story. And as I read the sweet paraphrase, I thought of Jojo. It says:
John 12:1-2 For anyone who says yes to Jesus For anyone who believes what Jesus said For anyone who will just reach out to take it Then God will give them this wonderful gift:
To be born into a whole new life To be who they really are Who God always made them to be- Their own true selves- God's dear child.
Jojo, god's dear child, thank you. We love you so. Admittedly, things are a little less fun and good without you here. But we know that when we finally join you in Heaven, you'll be right there welcoming us as you've always done and just like always, we look forward to being with you with wild anticipation. To Jojo the Great, you are great indeed.
1 note · View note
measamom · 7 years ago
Text
In Progress
I’m working on a small book detailing the very sweet year following the birth of Eloise. It’s a collection of several mini essays combined with photos detailing the small, intimate moments of motherhood. 
12. DIGNITY: AN EVOLUTION
Once you have been poked and prodded and given birth and then fumbled around accidentally exposing your nipple more times than you really even know while nursing, all sense of personal dignity seems to recalibrate. Which is good, because this will help you ease into all the silly mom voices, the public meltdowns, and the obvious hiatus of self-care.  The little things you once used to protect yourself from the world around you will no longer be valuable. Because they no longer work.  You don’t have nearly enough energy or time to work on your defenses because you have a baby. 
There will be plenty of time later on to pick those old mechanisms back up. They are always right there waiting. But maybe you’ll find you won’t want to. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll decide that you are unexpectedly better without your fake fancy, or your long list of love-me-because-look-what-I-do, your big, strong, high horse, or all your desperate people pleasing. 
Maybe a fresh understanding of dignity will evolve right inside of you, making way for simplicity and love, empathy and courage. And as these gifts gently inform how you live with others, with yourself, and with your own story, just maybe, you’ll finally stop trying to earn your life, you’ll stop trying to hide the real stuff and you’ll discover that dignity means permission to love who you are becoming, to feel strong, and to show up, with brighter eyes and an unapologetically open face. 
Tumblr media
0 notes
measamom · 8 years ago
Text
A Good Grief
The second half of 2016 brought a lot of loss to the Hogan house. Some things we had to let go of, some things we decided to let go of, and then, a number of deaths got us right in our guts. 
I am a sensitive girl. I have carried my emotions around like they are wiggly toddlers, just trying to keep them generally wrangled and safe, my whole life. I’m not afraid to laugh till I cry or to cry until I collapse. At our house, we call this ‘big feelings.’ We are a house of massive feelings. It’s part of our family culture, really. And we do our best to work out big sadness or big happiness or big angry with honesty, respect and kindness. We try. 
Sometimes people want you to be just a little less emotional. Grown ladies who have full time jobs learn quickly that if you ever cry at work, people will say things like, “I don’t think I was ever in a meeting with her where she didn’t cry.” Or so I’ve heard. So you start doing your best to button up your wildness. There is a certain merit to this. After all, wildness is unpredictable.
But grief is a real son of a bitch. It shows up in all its wildness, unpredictable and surprising. And at some point, if you don’t want to make yourself sick or crazy, you just have to go with it. You have to be quiet enough and still enough to pay attention to whatever way grief is manifesting itself within you. You have to let the stories that matter, matter. You have to let the loss work its way through your new normal. Sometimes, you have to let out an unexpected burst of tears, or take an extra nap, or look at those old pictures one more time, or burn a candle, or wear your grandma’s gold ring to the grocery store because you’re feeling a little extra tender today. 
These past few months have been harder than we expected. But here we are. And this song, by Johhnyswim, has been a great reminder that the best way over is through and that there is no use trying to escape or outrun the work of grief. My husband and I don’t want our heartache and questions and disappointment coming out sideways, or later, like some sort of explosion. So, we are practicing. We are trying our best to let this season be one of good grief—productive, regenerative, holy, even. Don’t get me wrong, it is unimaginably clumsy and exhausting. We can’t stick with it all the time. It looks more like a cycle of fits and starts and stops. But we keep at it. We are going to counseling, talking with friends, prayer, Bible stuff, working out, taking our medicine, drinking a lot of water, and pretending that SAG screener season is a gift from the Lord himself, to personally comfort us with the glory that is good filmmaking. You gotta use what you got.
So if this season has been a hard one, marked by some kind of loss—small or profound—I hope you will take a minute to listen to Let It Matter and be kindly reminded that while we were not created for loss, we have the scraps of hope needed to endure it. And though we must always get back to the work of living, there’s plenty of room to let what matters, matter.
0 notes
measamom · 8 years ago
Text
In Progress
I’m working on a book detailing the very sweet year following the birth of Eloise. It’s a collection of several mini essays combined with photos detailing the small, intimate moments of motherhood. 
18. MOTHERLOAD:OVERLOAD
Tumblr media
Sometimes I’ll get tripped up in my own head and start to fear that I might not have enough ‘mother’ in me for this job. I think I’m still just too much me. The problem with the transformation at delivery is that everything changes and nothing changes. Your whole life is different, while you’re left still being unmistakably you. I experienced no impartations of ‘know how.’  And while I suddenly felt things I had never felt before, I didn’t suddenly know things I hadn’t known before. That’s a real slap in the face if you ask me. The learning curve is so steep and I wanted to be experienced and confident. Calm and full of motherly wisdom, right from the very beginning. Instead, I felt like I was wearing a sign everywhere I went saying, “I’m making it all up as I go! But you already knew that, didn’t you?” 
I never, ever think I made a mistake, becoming a mom. The desire has been in my heart my whole life. But I wonder if some days, my kids will wonder. Will they one day lament to their counselor, who I am probably paying for, that I wasn’t the kind of person that should have become a mother. Too scattered. Too childish. Too sensitive. Will they confess to their adult peers that their mom asked them endless questions about their feelings, but often forgot to finish the laundry? Will they be embarrassed to have been raised by a woman who still pretends? 
And then, some tiny thing will inevitably happen and snap me back to reality. Every mom is weird. Every mom is making it up as she goes. Every mom is working with the curious mix of the raw materials she was given and whatever self-work she’s managed to do in order to mother her children in the best way she knows how. And we are enough. Each of us. I am enough. Enough mother, enough me, enough for this job.
My daughters will certainly need counseling. So I add quarters and dimes, metaphorically and actually, to the “counseling jar” all the time, as a gentle reminder that I will fail, but that good help is always available. And perhaps the unfolding of their stories can be beautiful and wild, even with a mother like me.
0 notes
measamom · 8 years ago
Text
On Repeat: It’s Quiet Uptown
On Repeat…
We are straight up Hamilton junkies in this family. We sing it loud and proud and dance around and pretend we are in the show. A lot.
And then, today, The Hamilton Mixtape. One of the first songs released is a cover of “It’s Quiet Uptown” belted out by the fearless Kelly Clarkson. I can’t stop listening to it. It’s gorgeous. But it also speaks to something else inside of me.  Maybe it’s the Cubs, and Halloween and the election all catching up to me. I am tender and overtired and needed something beautiful. I cry when I listen to the original recording, but this, today, got me right in the guts. Grateful.
https://open.spotify.com/track/7JLQ6ZawBiDNVYaAR0bKVi
Take a listen. You might cry. But I think, today, that’s okay. XO.
0 notes
measamom · 8 years ago
Text
Happy Birthday, Lulu!
How this tiny, glorious person is three, I don’t understand. 
Tumblr media
It’s probably denial. But three is just so definitely-not-a-baby-anymore, that I pretend to not understand. Except that the truth is, she is getting so big and smart and brave. A busy little artist with a mind all her own.
Tumblr media
And so funny. Like, uh oh, funny. Like, she is going to give us a run for our money, funny. 
Tumblr media
There are hilarious voices, and crazy dance moves, sideways looks and sneaky giggles. 
Tumblr media
She loves to pretend, she loves to build, and play ‘teacher’ and ‘mom’ and trains and dinosaurs. She would follow her big sister anywhere, almost. 
Tumblr media
She has an instinct for hospitality and she is practicing using her voice. She requests the Hamilton soundtrack on the regular. She loves SnapChat with auntie LaLa.
Tumblr media
She has inherited her big sister’s bold sense of fashion (there can never be too many layers, patterns or colors) and she’s got swirly brown curls for days. 
Tumblr media
We love her so much. And we are delighted to celebrate her life today. 
Eloise Pearl, we love you more than all the stars. Happy Birthday, sweet Lulu!
0 notes
measamom · 8 years ago
Text
For Lucky Number Thirteen
Tumblr media
Just last Friday I sat in a crowded, muggy high school gym and tried not cry. What feels like one hundred years ago, I danced during half time of football games and basketball games at this school. I sat around writing moody poetry on benches outside the math wing. I faked my way through swing choir. I performed in plays and even directed one. And there I sat, sweating, on sticky bleachers, wrangling my two children during a playoff volleyball game. Or is it a match? Seriously, though, which is it?  Either way, it hadn’t occurred to me that this might be the last time I would see my brother play high school volleyball.  And why should it have, I’m not one of his parents, after all. Although, the sixteen years between us grants me a little leeway for sentimentality, I suppose. But as the game drew to a close, I realized this was it. And in exactly one week, I’d be watching him graduate. It felt more like the end of something than I was prepared for.
I am the first grandchild on either side of my family. I was the first daughter, born to a first daughter and her young husband, fourth of five in his respective family. And while my aunts and uncles on both sides married and had children, a sort of litter of cousins, I remained an only. A first and only…for so many years. And then, after everyone else was quite done with the baby making, my parents surprised us all and my sister was born. I was 14. What a miracle. The two of us girls, sisters at last. But it just seemed like someone was missing. One last tiny person to really round things out. And so, when my mom announced she was again pregnant on Christmas morning, during my sophomore year of high school, I seriously thought I had hit the ever-loving jackpot. Another baby was coming. And he was due right around my 16th birthday.
He arrived early. A little too early for his baby lungs. On August 7th, 1997 I paced around the hospital waiting room, watching, waiting praying. And after several hours, when the hospital was quiet and still, a saw a nurse run past the glass doors pushing a baby in a clear, plastic bassinet. I remember whispering to myself, “Oh gosh, that doesn’t look good.” And then, I gasped. Following behind that nurse was my own dad. Later, I would discover that my brother had flipped himself around in my mom’s belly. She had been afraid of surgery, but they opted for the c-section. And thank God they did. That baby boy had gotten himself so tangled in his umbilical cord they could barely pull him out. Between that and his underdeveloped lungs, things could have really gone south. But they took good care of him and eventually got him healthy and strong, though I think it’s fair to point out that his flair for the dramatic started rather early.
Thomas Jackson, my parents named him. But we all call him TJ. He was named after my dad and my maternal grandfather—And sure enough, he has my grandpa Jack’s height and my dad’s athletic ability. This has made him better than good at volleyball. The sport he will play in college on a scholarship. Turns out when you are 6’9” and fast and strong and not afraid to spike the hell out of a ball, people really want you on their volleyball team.
Because of our age difference, people often awkwardly ask if we have the same parents. But if you look at the three of us, my sister and brother and I, you will have your answer. There is no question we came from the same DNA. My brother, in particular, loves when I point out that we have the same face, just with different haircuts.
Most of our lives, TJ and I haven’t lived together. He was only two when I left for college. Although, through God’s sweetness and a most peculiar set of circumstances, the little family I am building together with my husband, ended up living in the basement of the family home I grew up in. For a whole year.  We moved in when our toddler was almost 2 ½ and I was 8 moths pregnant. And both my siblings were in high school. Just think about that for one second. It was bananas. And it was really sweet. I got to know my brother the way you only do when you live with someone. And it turns out, he’s kind of the greatest. 
And now this giant man of a baby brother is going to college. I’m afraid I will miss him more than he realizes. Because, against all odds and 16 years between us, we have become friends. Actual friends. He is hilarious and smart and he loves to dance. Like, really, really. He is focused and kind, at ease with almost everyone. He is sensitive and deliberate and thoughtful. He is the greatest uncle to my girls. His list of accomplishments is rather lengthy. Just today, he found out he made 1st Team All State for Volleyball. Because why not show off on the last ever day of high school : )
I can’t wait to see what kind of man he becomes. What kind of life he builds. He has found favor wherever he has gone. And his courage these last few years, courage to stand alone, to lead up, to follow the activity of the Spirit, has inspired me. Not all teenage boys are fun to be around. But TJ is.
As I am the oldest grandchild on both sides, TJ is the youngest. The last. The baby. On my dad’s side, that makes him number 13. As I have forged ahead, he has brought up the rear. The sort of extraordinary exclamation point of our families. I’d say Number 13 is lucky, indeed.
TJ, I love you so. Happy, happy graduation day!
0 notes
measamom · 9 years ago
Text
On repeat...
My daughters and I have been listening to this song on repeat:
Better When I’m Dancing - Meghan Trainor
A little backstory:
Just before Christmas, my friend, Mary Beth, and I were seated near each other at the end of a long table of chatty women in a very loud restaurant. We all serve together in a mom’s group that meets every other week and our fearless leader had brought us to a restaurant to partake in the biggest ice cream sundae I’ve ever seen. T W E N T Y F O U R scoops of ice cream covered in every imaginable topping. It was outrageous. And fun. We laughed and talked and carefully passed around the trough of ice cream between the 15 of us. 
As we all stood to leave, one of my favorite songs started playing. It was loud and the bass was vibrating the floor. It was everything I could do to keep still as we passed though crowded tables toward the door. I noticed that Mary Beth, who was directly in front of me, was dancing to herself, just the tiniest bit. I smiled and whispered to her, “How much would I have to pay you to jump up on this table right here and ‘really’ dance?” Her big eyes flickered like gold as she looked over shoulder at me, “Not as much as you’d think!”
I love this. Her boldness and sense of fun called out something inside my heart. I want to be more like that. After a few days of reflecting on that small exchange, I realized that some of the things that make me, me, I’ve locked way down deep. Far enough that someone would have to fork over big bucks to get me to do what I secretly already want to do, what is already inside me. This silly and fun and loud and sensitive and absurd girl that is really me. Here’s the thing...I use to dance all the time. In classes. With pom-pons in the middle of football and basketball games. In college. In the aisles of the grocery store. Alone in the study of my sorority house in the middle of the night. In stage movement classes. Just sort of, always moving. And then I stopped. I think I might have started believing a little lie, called “It Is Not Cute For Ladies Of A Certain Age to Be Dancing Around All the Damn Time.” When I was younger, I couldn’t help it. I danced the way I pretended or talked to myself, which is to say, c.o.n.s.t.a.n.t.l.y. The pretending and talking to myself I still do ALL the time. But dancing fell away. And I got a little locked up in my own body. Wanting to dance, yet holding back. Believing that less of the real me makes me more like all the ‘grown ups’. I don’t want to be foolish. I don’t want to be embarrassing. I want to be taken seriously. I want to be important. But all this stopping and stuffing might be costing me too many dance parties and too much freedom. So, I’ve decided this is a new year, and it is time for a new way! 
A few days later, I found this print at one of my favorite local shops:
Tumblr media
I bought two. One to give to Mary Beth, obviously, and the other to give to my friend Sarah who is always reminding me + helping me to stop hiding. (But then, Sarah went and painted me a gorgeous original painting on a giant canvas as a Christmas gift from my husband, so I felt a little silly giving her a print that someone else made... geesh!) 
Who knew my battle against hiding in this season is starting with dancing. Maybe I’ll be brave enough to stick my mom body into an actual class, but for now, wild, big dance parties in the car, in the kitchen, in the playroom will all have to do! After all, I am trying to show these little ladies of mine that even when it’s clumsy and you’re out of breath, if the music is good, we dance!
0 notes
measamom · 9 years ago
Text
The Stories I’ll Tell
I recently sat down to write about a close family friend who was battling cancer. I got my courage and shared it with him a few weeks ago, as a way to say thank you and goodbye. And then, just one week ago, he passed away. Today was his memorial. I had the honor to read my letter. And I’ve decided to share it here. 
For Robert, The Stories I’ll Tell
A very dear family friend is dying. I’ve known Robert since I was in elementary school. He and his wife, Kelly, were part of my parent’s small group for a long time. And now he’s sick. He’s been battling cancer for four years, enduring surgeries and treatments, recoveries and recurrences. But it’s been too much, for him and for his family.  Treatment was no longer providing more help than harm. So he stopped this winter and is preparing to go, with the singular goal of ending well.
He has chosen peace to win over fear and hope to win over anger. He has traveled the country to say goodbye to family and friends. He asked Kelly to throw an Irish Wake, gathering all the people he loved for one last party.  He knew that if everyone was going to gather to celebrate his life anyway, he wanted to be part of it. It was a beautiful night. Maybe bittersweet is a better word.
He is leaving extra furnace filters in the basement and has cleared out his bathroom cabinet, not wanting Kelly or Olivia to have to go through it on their own. Because he knows that his days are numbered. Everyone’s days are numbered, of course. But not like this. He knows how he is going to die, and he has a pretty good idea about when. This cancer will march on and he is waving his white flag. His body has betrayed an otherwise perfectly sound mind. Although, if you ask him, he might tell you that without this failure of bodily health, he would never have had the healing of his spirit. His kids, whom I love, will think this is hokey. But what can I say. I believe in God. And Jesus and all of it. And I think that Robert got the miracle we were all praying for. While we were busy praying for his body, Robert knew God was fast at work on his insides. He is leaving this Earth thankful and calm. What better way to leave, then with a full heart?
I wrote the following letter, because I thought Robert would be surprised to know how many times a day I think of him and pray for him as he has been getting close to the end. How dearly I hold he and his family in my heart. I thought today might be as good a day as any, to make sure he knows.
To Robert, as you transition from your life here to your life there, I wanted you know the stories I will tell about you:
I will tell people that nobody had to convince me that life together was better. Nobody had to explain it to me. I got to see it and be part of it. You and Kelly, along with Steve and Kimbra, have walked with my parents through so much of life. You have built a history that includes helping, laughing, telling the truth, praying, celebrating, grieving, and mostly, just showing up. We love you like family. We will miss you like family, too.
I will tell people that your family opened your home to me when I needed it the most. Things were wild at my house. I suddenly felt like a lone traveler with no map. And I needed some help. God used you guys to fill in some of the gaps. There was one specific day things were really unraveling. My dad was gone and my mom was crying so hard that she couldn’t really speak to me. I was 12. That night, my mom dropped me off at your house. I honestly didn’t know why and I wasn’t really sure for how long. But you guys fed me, and kept me busy, gave me a safe space to play and laugh and wait out the storm. Many of my memories from that season are actually in your house. I’ll confess I don’t know if my memory is exactly accurate, but I see now that that almost doesn’t matter. Because I was left with the impression of your home being my second my home. If you were ever frustrated, annoyed or bothered by my being there, I never, ever knew it. At a time where I wasn’t sure what was happening around me, you guys made space for me. You let me in, which made me feel safe. That kind of season could have sent a young girl so far off the rails, but your hospitality helped me keep my balance.
I will talk about your smartass sense of humor.
I will talk about the time that I found out you guys were pregnant with Olivia right after finding out that Steve and Kimbra were expecting Courtney. And I was downright furious. How you guys could do this to me, I could not understand!  I was so desperate for a sibling that I somehow convinced myself if the baby was going to be a boy, maybe you would let us have him, since you already had Logan. And you guys, you let me come with to the ultrasound, inviting me to be part of the fun. Who let’s the middle school aged daughter of their best friends’ tag along to an ultrasound? I will never forget it for my whole life.
I will tell people about New Year’s Eve. Which really became a long tradition of friendship. My friend, Shauna, writes about having a home team. The people you have around you that are there no matter what.  You and Kelly have been that for me. In the chaos and in the celebrations. Whenever there was a list to be made, be it for parties, announcements, Christmas cards, invitations, for anything, you and Kelly have always been the first names I instinctively scribble, right after family. It has never once, not ever, occurred to me that you guys were not my home team. And for that, I will be always grateful.
I will talk about how, at the Irish Wake thrown for you this past February, you mingled and smiled the night away. And then, as people left one-by-one, you stood with them under the chandelier in your foyer and told them how much you loved them. I know you didn’t want drama and tears. And I know I was the only one who went rogue by crying. I couldn’t help it.
I will talk about how you asked if you could come by and see our new house. How we waited for the text and then dropped everything to be ready because you were feeling well enough for a short visit! I showed you and Kelly and Liv around, hoping you would be proud of us. Proud of this little family we’ve been working on. Our first garden and our updated bathroom. Thanks for letting me hold your hand for a moment on the couch, as you talked about wanting to end gracefully and smoothly. Your words of blessing and encouragement meant a great deal to me. I was an honor for me to welcome you into my home, as you have welcomed me so many times into yours.
Robert, I love you. And these are the stories I will tell.
0 notes
measamom · 10 years ago
Text
To Jessica
At one of the haziest moments of my life, I had the good fortune of finding my self in the chair of a beautiful hair stylist named Jessica. Her books were full, but she was the friend of a friend and she let me sneak in. So, exactly two weeks after Ruby was born, my husband made an appointment for me and I wandered into her salon, still shell shocked, and I dare say, it was obvious. She took kind, gentle, generous care of me. And made me do things like schedule my next appointment before I left, so that I didn't accidentally slip off my own to-do list. And now, she is doing what all great hair stylists do, she is moving. Argh! But she and her husband are chasing a big, beautiful adventure together, and we are cheering them on! As she packs up to head to Charleston this week, this is my thank you.
To Jessica
For being exactly what I needed, exactly when I needed it 
For seeing I was still in there 
For not letting me chop my hair 
For telling me it was okay to take care of myself 
For jumping from gushing over jewelry to chatting about healing prayer to laughing about Rachel Zoe
For Ruby's first hair cut
For encouraging me to keep telling my story
For whispering and laughing about sex while leaning over the shampoo bowl during a wash
For letting us be part of your F&F
For 'suggesting' birthday and Christmas gift ideas to my husband
For sending him home with clothes and candles for me
For being the very first person I told about Eloise
For crying happy tears because I was happy
For talking me into caramel & honey even though I was afraid it would look too orange
For a safe place to practice being myself
With love and gratitude and prayers for the adventure ahead!
XO-
M
0 notes
measamom · 10 years ago
Text
Until My Body Is My Own
Bodies can be a hard topic to reconcile. Especially for women. Especially in a culture that demands you simultaneously conform to what others need + want your body to be, while you pretend to be at peace with what you've got. 
Momming can complicate the relationship even further, because your body is no longer just yours. And every part of the journey is intimate and decidedly physical. You have to chose how you are going to interact with your changing body as it becomes its own distinct character in your story. 
You start with sex, you hope for conception, you celebrate pregnancy, you bemoan stretch marks, you wince through examinations, you scream through contractions, you battle through pushing, and then the glorious moment of delivery, which begets months of nursing, and  all  that  nurturing. 
Motherhood moves you from a constant state of body awareness to a constant state of baby awareness. But you still need so much from your body. There is no way to separate yourself from the physicality of the whole thing.  And once that baby is born, all the needing is immediate and on top of itself. As a new mom, I am daily interacting with other people’s bodily functions and fluids, as if it is nothing. The urgency to meet a revolving door of needs can feel big. It can take over. It begins to feel right, holy, noble, to put myself last. At the bottom of the list.  And sometimes, I can slip right off the list altogether, without anyone even noticing. I only realize it with that sharp prod of shame when, for example, I am in a store and I see an old friend from before I had kids, and she has an actual hair-do and is even wearing a bracelet. And I think, ‘Wow, if she found the time to accessorize, I should at least find the time to take a shower.’ Sometimes, I schedule a massage because it’s the only time someone touches me without needing something. I am happy to pay for an hour of peace every few months. 
I am told there will be a time when I will not have to take a shower while talking about Tinkerbell. When I will be able to make a meal without constantly tripping over a twirling mess of blond hair. When there will not be sticky hands climbing over me while I have a phone call about story development. When my body will be my own again. But I am also told that this time will be here before I know it. And that when it comes, all I will want is to go back. I believe it. I already feel it. There are fewer places I feel more like myself than in the up-close proximity of the people I made. Their skin, their smells, their breath. The way they look at me with eyes that look like mine. Or how they mindlessly find themselves in my lap when we are reading stories. Or how they don’t flinch when I tell them I'm working toward kissing them each one million times.  
When else do you get to delight in something you’ve worked so hard on? When else can you marvel at the goodness of life, simply because you can nuzzle it with your own face? I know they will grow big and independent and develop their own sense of self. They will need more of me in different ways. And there will be a time I am homesick for the contact. For the ease and comfort and closeness it afforded us.
I don't have my body back yet. I trust that I will, someday. So, tonight, I will rock Lula a little too long, trying not to gobble her up while she rubs those sleepy eyes. And I will hold my tongue when Cakes rearranges the kitchen chairs, again, so that our seats are ‘Sooo next to each other that they are touching, mom!” Tonight, I will revel in the intimacy of it all.
1 note · View note
measamom · 11 years ago
Text
To The Moon & Back
Tonight, my baby sister is going to graduate from high school.  I've already cried multiple times this past semester, thinking of how quickly she will be gone, away at school, finding her grown up voice, making her own space in this world.  I'm so excited for her.  And a little sad for myself. Isn't that the way it is.  Grasping for that elusive balance between holding on and letting go.
Isn't she just... 
Tumblr media
I thought I would share something I wrote about her several years ago, just as she was starting middle school.  Because while so many things have changed since then, so many things have remained. Most notably, that I love her to the moon and back.
Budding Beauty 
I went to visit my sister.  I am a lot older than she is.  14 years to be exact.  And this was a big deal.  She was moving to a new room in the line of succession at our church.  But this wasn’t just a move from say, “2nd & 3rd grade room” to “4th & 5th grade room.”  No, this was far more monumental.  This was the saying goodbye to Sunday school and walking through the doors of Western Culture youth ministry.  It’s a funny thing we do here with adolescents in the church.  I should know.  I work for the high school ministry.  
Anyway, on this particular Sunday morning in June, I left my own nervous batch of new, wide-eyed incoming freshman, taking their place in our high school ministry.  I cut across the giant atrium that connects the auditoriums and offices to the gym of our church, where the wild things grow:  where the middle school aged kids start trying to work out who they are… by throwing things at each other, and showing off and congregating in what can be cruel little groups.  It’s like a whole other world with Play Station, and training bras and braces everywhere you look.  And I realize there is not enough money in the world to entice me back to this stage of life.  With all it’s budding puberty and the low grade anxiety of rejection and pre-algebra.  I barely got through it the first time around.  I was sort of a disaster in middle school.  I stumbled through those years incorrectly thinking that I was older than my peers and that avoiding mistakes at all cost would put me about a million miles ahead of all of them, both in life and in line to Heaven.  It’s a wonder I had any friends at all, really.  And as I look at my awkward past self, I can’t help but to have a measure of compassion for these 11-13 year olds.  They don’t really have any idea of just how lost and misguided they are.  They’re just same as the rest of us, but smaller… which only increases the despair and helplessness and terrifying need to torture.  So I enter the gym, aware that I may get a kickball to the face or made fun of.  But I risk it.  Really, I just want to see my sister.
Sometimes when I look at her, my heart swells up.  My life would be so sad and boring without her.  She is so different than me in all the best ways.  She is fearless and athletic and outrageously funny.  And I wish I could be just like her.  When she’s disappointed, I’m heartsick.  When she’s excited, I could fly.  When we fight, I can’t believe how awful she is.  When she laughs, I light up.  She is my very own sister, the person who’s DNA is most like mine out of everybody in the whole wide world.  I waited for this sister for so very many years and waited with such anticipation that someday she would be real, and here, and part of our family.  My mom came to my first high school homecoming parade 8 months pregnant and I was so proud.  That autumn I called home from a school pay phone at lunch everyday to check in on my mom and see how she was feeling and if she was having contractions.  She was expected to come at the end of October, but I was hoping she would come just a little early. 
The day she was born was like a spell had finally been broken in my heart.  I could, at last, have a sister and be a sister.  And I could NOT have been more delighted.  I changed diapers and watched Lamb Chops Sing-Along and showed her off because she was just perfect.  I assumed because of our age difference that she would be like another first born, but shockingly, she is a classic middle child.  And it wasn’t long before we could all see that she was extremely, ahem, strong willed and able to convince other people to follow her around.  I had a feeling she would be some sort of kick-ass super hero or at least an amazing athlete.  She was only four when I left for college, and it was awful.  She cried and I cried and it was terrible.  I always wondered if someday she would understand that I wasn’t trying to make her so sad or leave her.  But that I had to go to school, and that I would in fact, come back.  And I dreamed about when she would finally be old enough for us to have inside jokes and laugh at our parents and be friends.  And all of sudden, she is almost a teenager.  This transition seems important to mark, even if it is in a sweaty gym with 200 other kids.
So there stands my sister, with a bit of smudged eyeliner and her small freckled face.  She is near my mom, who is chatting with other parents.  The normal events of the gathering are happening all around.  My sister, who is suspiciously surveying what’s about to happen to her, has been checked in and is ready to make her way, for this first time, into her new community.  I yell out to her, “Hey!”  She responds, only for the tiniest of moments, “Hey!”   Then she is quick to hide behind rolling eyes and obviously rude remarks at the expense of myself and of my mother.  This is because there are 8th graders around.  And kids she’s never seen before.  And we are making her feel self-conscious.  She doesn’t want to be watched, in the way she knows that we will watch her, while she enters this new world.  She wants to feel it all without evaluation.  And she wants to try out who she is, without rejection.  Sensing this, my mom casually waves goodbye and reminds her, “Have fun!  I’ll be back when it’s over!”  So my favorite 11 year old and I make small talk.  I introduce her to the people running the show, who luckily for me, happen to be my friends.  We stand around in a funny little circle catching up and trying make my sister feel at home.  There is no question that she is in great hands and that she will, after the fear subsides, have a very good time.  Figuring it’s time to leave her be, I get ready to head out.  Just then, she makes a point to look at one of my friends, Toni, who is standing near us, and tell her that she is pretty and cool.  Everyone likes this… an 11 year old telling a 26 year old she is cool.  But then she looks right at me, rolls her eyes for all of us to see, forms her fingers into an L shape, and declares, “And you are a loser.”  Everyone laughs a bit…an 11 year old making fun of her 25 year old sister.  I smile, because I see what this is.  I know that this is the last thing she thinks about me.  So I keep my stare warmly in her eyes, unflinching, loving her as much as I can humanly do without speaking a word.  It is too much for her to bear.  She knows she is faking.  She looks away.  I yell out to her, “Hey, have a great time.  I can’t wait to hear about it.”  And the very moment my adult friends have gone back to their business and responsibilities, she looks back, right into my eyes this time, and mouths to me, “I love you.  Thanks.”  I smile a smile that makes her giggle, mouth it back and give a little wave.  And with that she is gone. 
Colleen Elizabeth, I love you to the moon and back.  Happy Graduation Day!
0 notes
measamom · 11 years ago
Text
Not What I Expected
I was recently asked to share some thoughts on my personal experience with postpartum depression following the birth of our first daughter for an online publication.  I am always happy / sad to talk about it or write about it.
Happy because I really do believe we are only as sick as our secrets.  I have no desire to hold my months of struggle close to the chest, hidden away from the world. I think sharing the hard parts of our stories gives voice to the ache and I hope that it gives permission for others to do the same. We are, after all, in this together. 
And yet.
And yet, I'm still sad this was the way things began for our little family. Sharing our story makes it real. Which can be hard for my mama heart.
But hard doesn't mean bad.  So here is a link to what I shared.  I hope you'll read it. I hope you'll find it helpful.  I hope you'll send it to friends who are in the fog. I hope you'll be reminded that the broken bits are worth sharing and that heartache & grief don't have to be the period at the end of any story.
Not What I Expected
0 notes
measamom · 11 years ago
Text
How It Felt
People have asked me what postpartum depression felt like. I don’t always know what to say. It felt like a lot of things. In the days after Ruby was born, there were wonderful, sweet moments with my newborn.  Good whole days, even. But, by and large, it was very hard. And the feelings I experienced often morphed without warning. I know every person experiences it differently. This is how it felt to me.
  .  .  .  .  .
  Some days it felt like I was coated in a heavy dust. Gritty soot that, despite my best efforts, I could not shake off. It rested on my shoulders and back, as if it was finally at home, threatening to stay forever, covering me in the weight of an invisible sadness.
Some days it felt like a dizzying, orange, fog had swallowed me up.  No matter which way I turned my head or how hard I squinted; all I could see was my life through a thick orange mist.  Everything looked hazy, unclear, out of focus.  For the first time, I couldn’t see myself at all. Everything beyond the fog felt just out of my reach.
  Some days it felt like nothing.  So much nothing, that I couldn’t even get the muscles in my face to fake a smile.  The nothing turned all the colors down and zapped at my energy, making getting out of bed a chore. I felt blank, expressionless and empty.
  Some days it felt exactly like being stuck.  I was secretly afraid I was making it all up. Or that people thought I was. I could hardly sit still and face the panic that was connected to feeling so suddenly trapped.  I had done something I couldn’t undo, and that almost undid me.
  Some days felt edgy and electric.  Like a tense energy coursing beneath my surface and if anybody got too close to me, I might spark and burn out.
  Some days it felt like straight up crazy.  I couldn’t explain why I was so sad or so anxious or so angry.  My reduced capacity to do normal, daily things kept sneaking up on me and laughing in my confused face.  Shame cackled along, inviting me to isolate and hide.
  Some days it felt like I might float away and disappear into nothing.  Like maybe I had become unhinged or detached or unhooked from a secure tether. 
  It was hard to keep up with myself.  Any number of things could trigger me to feel sad or anxious.  It was frustrating and humiliating to feel so out of control of myself.  Like I had suddenly reverted to a moody teenager who cries when she doesn’t get her way and lashes out when her parents make her mad.  
  And that’s how it felt.
  .  .  .  .  .
  My postpartum depression was this swirl of feelings recklessly mixed up with enormous love for my girl. It was confusing and exhausting.  But it didn’t last.  Thank God.  It didn’t last.  The fog eventually lifted, ever so slowly, and when I looked around with clear eyes, I could see that me-as-Ruby’s-mom could really be something. Something I liked. Something I wanted to be. And I rejoiced and was glad in it.
0 notes
measamom · 11 years ago
Text
'Coca Dots' Surprise!
Last night we invited my family over to have cake.  Ruby was deliriously happy, because her best, all-time favorite people were here and also, because it was way past bedtime.  Plus, she was convinced we were having cake because it was her birthday.  She ran around in her giant tulle tutu and squealed and threw herself haphazardly at my dad, her Papa, over and over. 
We were all excited, actually.  Between the layers of this round, double layer, vanilla cake, covered with white polka dots (‘coca dots’ as Ruby calls them) all plopped on a thin layer of white frosting, was a surprise.  A single layer of colored frosting to tell my family that come November, we would be welcoming either a boy or another girl into our little blooming family. Blue or pink, carefully hidden away, waiting to announce the news.
Blaine and I already knew.  We took our little envelope of ultrasound pictures to lunch and opened it together, laughing and covering our mouths as we talked, ate, and tried to imagine our new person.
We were eager to tell Ruby and my family.  So last night, with sparkling water and candles, we gathered around our living room happily chattering.  And then we couldn’t really wait anymore.  We set the big, white cake on the table and gave a knife to my dad and let him have the honors.  My mom was almost on her tippy toes trying to get a good look while taking pictures.  My brother and sister were narrating the whole scene.  And Ruby just kept clapping, congratulating Papa on the exemplary job at cutting ‘her’ cake.  
And then the shrieks.  My family all thought this baby was a boy.  They were certain.  I had a little feeling that it was another girl. Blaine thought the same. Ruby told everyone it was a sister. The women at Ruby’s preschool were split. Several friends were just sure, one way or another.  But as my dad sliced through the double layers, he revealed a neon pink stripe of sugary fun news.  Ruby was right all along...
 She is getting a sister!
Tumblr media
We couldn’t be more excited & thankful. Hurrah!
Tumblr media
1 note · View note
measamom · 12 years ago
Text
Happy, Happy Birthday!
Today is a happy day at our house.  Today, my RubyCakes turns two.  Or as she would announce to you in a shout-y voice, “I two year ooooooold!”
She is very excited.  And that makes me very excited.  I can’t help it.  I’m her mama.  Plus, I love, love, love that when we ask her about birthday parties she immediately wants cake and a hat.  The teachers at her little school once called her, “A party in a person.” Who wouldn’t want to celebrate a girl like that! 
So today, on her second birthday, our little family will dance and cheer for all the little and big things God has done in the past year of this life.  For talking and ‘zooming’, shoulder dancing and outlasting Rotavirus. For learning her ABC’s, for teaching me to be a little less serious. For making her first friends and then learning to pray for them.  I could go on.
Instead, I thought today would be a sweet day to share a part of something I wrote about bringing Ruby home from the hospital.
  Coming Home
When it was time to leave the hospital, I was so ready and at the same time so desperately unprepared, a perfect picture of new motherhood. There had been a lot of medical attentiveness during our stay, but not much else.  I don’t know what I was expecting, exactly.  Perhaps more patience with my questions about nursing or more help with my inconsolable newborn during the harrowing middle-of-the-night hours. I guess I just thought the nurses were going to be a little more, “Oh, honey, how can I help?” and less “Good luck with that.” But I had overlooked the facts; they are nurses, not nannies, after all. 
Although the day had come, I was still slow getting up and a little unsteady on my feet.  But I was very eager to get our little girl home.  I wanted to be in our house, cozy and safe, just the three of us.  I wanted to show her the nursery we had painted La Paloma Grey with the help of some friends.  And the crib that her daddy put together and the framed cross-stitch alphabet my grandma made for me when I was a little girl.  We had done all we could to prepare our space for her, practicing making room for her in our life before she even arrived.  And I wanted her to see it.   
Before we left the hospital, I took a long shower and reminded myself that we could do this and that we wouldn’t be doing any of it alone.  As I carefully got dressed, I could feel my heartbeat quicken.  I was a little nervous, but only a little.  More than being afraid, I was giddy.  While drying my hair, I kept stopping what I was doing to tip toe over to her in the bassinet and look at her.  It was the first time we had really been alone in the room together.  It was the middle of the afternoon and the floor was peacefully quiet and the nurses had stopped checking in on us.  I just stood there with my head tilted to the side smirking.  It was the first moment I was able to reflect.  I had faced labor with courage and had done the hard work of delivering our baby out into the world.  She and I had worked together on our first endeavor and we had succeeded.  And now there we were, just two girls getting to know each other.  I wanted to tell her everything I knew and catalogue the names and stories of all the people that she would be meeting, who had been praying for her and who already love her.  But she wanted to yawn and wriggle and keep on sleeping.  So we compromised: I whispered meaningful secrets to her while she carried on snoozing.  
And then an hour later, with some help from a very kind nurse, we got our Ruby into her car seat, signed our discharge papers and were on our way.  I remember thinking, while being pushed along in the wheel chair with Blaine walking beside me carrying our baby, that we were a couple of lucky assholes.  There are a lot of reasons to be wheeled down the hallway of a hospital and not all of them are nice.  But this day was beyond nice.  It was outrageous in its goodness.  I breathed deeply and slowly as I thanked God for giving us this kind of day.
As we pulled away from the hospital, I wasn’t worried about driving slow or how other people were driving fast, the way some new parents fret.  I wasn’t gulping about being careful or clinching my jaw about getting into an accident.  Instead, I was preoccupied by taking pictures of Ruby on her first adventure.  Every little face she made seemed to deserve another quick shot. I sent more than a few photos to my parents, letting them know how brave and mature we all were, on our way home from the hospital together. And I laughed at how corny I felt already.
I sat there, in the back seat next to my brand new best person, listening to Mumford & Sons and the sound of the windshield wipers.  I ran my hands over the blanket that we had tucked around Ruby and snuggled my nose down under her chin.  Her breathing was slow and steady and her cheeks were rosy and warm. 
I looked out at the grey drizzle and thought, what a beautiful day.
   Happy Birthday, RuppertPie. We love you more than all the stars.
1 note · View note