It’s no secret that I love to travel – especially flying. It doesn’t matter where I’m going, really. I just want to be going. I love love love the airport – there’s no people-watching like people-watching at the airport. I don’t mind a long layover…I could sit at the airport all day.
Right now, I am writing from gate B7 in the Phoenix International Airport while I wait to board a flight to Minneapolis. From my perch I can see:
Picture it.
Two of your children are fighting in the other room. You’re not even sure what started it. You heard it start with a little whine, and your ears perked up.
What was once a little whimper has dissolved into a yelling match, which is now culminating in a physical altercation. It all happened so quickly that you didn’t even have time to get in there and stop it before it happened.
You’ve arrived in the room. Everyone’s crying. You know what happens next – the shouting begins and the stories flow.
So today I turn 30!
I did some bucket list things and some housekeeping things in anticipation of this monumental birthday. I ran my first half marathon last weekend and yesterday I got the tattoo I’ve been wanting. Also yesterday, I finally took down Christmas and pulled my house back together after much neglect. I cleaned out my closet and my pantry for a fresh start of a new decade.
Everyone keeps asking how I feel about it with a little edge in their voice like they’re expecting my answer to be negative. With my kids, I always get emotional.
But honestly, I’m so excited!
Since I got married as a baby and had babies as practically a baby myself…I feel like I’ve been living the 30-year-old life for a while. I’ve driven a minivan for more than half of my 20s. I rest my case.
As I have taken inventory of who I am over the last few days, I have discovered a lot of things I’m so glad that I have grown out of.
I’m in a weird place these days.
It’s a funk, to be sure.
I’m at that place where everything is overwhelming, small problems are huge, and the things that make me irritated are…all of the things. I’ve become unkind, irritable, and scatterbrained. I’m in a constant state of insecurity and feeling lonely.
There are many explanations as to why this is, but the biggest of them is this – I miss Jesus.
Somewhere along the way, I’ve let myself get busy, distracted, and distant.
It’s summer break, so both of my kids are home together all the time and fight for 90% of that time. Not to mention that it’s sorta hot here on the surface of the sun in Arizona and we are in survival mode.
My life has been out of balance lately, and lots of things have suffered – one of them being my writing.
This weekend was the women’s retreat at church.
You know, the time when nearly 500 women hand their husbands the reins and a few already-cooked meals, and for some – the number for the doctor and directions to the nearest emergency room, and all of the children – and then giddily flee to the mountains. They’re loaded down with coffee and junk food. They ignore the fact that they will be sleeping in bunk beds like convicts because they will be sleeping. alone. so just whatever.
One mom in our cabin lied to told her husband and kids that we weren’t allowed to have cell phones, so not to even bother calling her. PERFECTION.
The cabin hostesses made Pinterest-worthy crafty things like our initials to hang on our bunks. We were welcomed with open arms and genuine smiles. We all looked around at each other that first night with wide unbelieving eyes that we’d all made it.
Well, I have a confession to make.
I’ve been battling some anxiety lately. Feelings of not being good enough, impending sense of doom, you know that kind of stuff. No big deal.
It’s something I’ve always struggled with, and sometimes it hits me harder than others. I withdraw from the world, I shut down when I start to think too much, and I stop writing because then I might really have to face my feelings.
A few minutes ago, I figured out what I think is the root of this bout of anxiety – my boys.
When we were brand new parents, Ty told me that he always considered “seven” to be the number. THE number.
When you’ve been married seven years, you’re pretty experienced. You’re out of the honeymoon phase and you’re into real life. You’ve been through a lot together already. You can now dole out advice.
If you have kids who are seven, you have been parents for a while. You did the whole bottles and diapers stage, you’ve been through toddlerhood, and you’re even into elementary school. You’re legit. You also are allowed to advise.
Well, it happened.
I don’t know what’s going on in my life lately, but I know so many people who are about to have babies – all but one of them for the first time. Two of them are going to be my nieces! Just. Can’t. Deal.
I am for sure done birthing children. But it makes me think back to when I was having my boys and what it was like.
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It’s a crazy thing, to give birth. You grow a little human inside your body for months, selflessly letting its presence alter your food preferences, sleeping habits, emotional capacity, foot width, ability to balance or think straight. And then the world acts like it’s no big deal to shove it right out of your body (“Women have been doing it for centuries!” “Your body was meant to do this!”).
Can we all just be honest with these women? Growing a human is hard work. Birthing a human is hard work.
I am so glad that you're here! I hope you stay and join me in this place. My promise to you is that I will never pull any punches, or hide behind any façade. This life is messy, and hard, and beautiful. I promise to keep showing up here to remind you that, “Me, too.”
