What has this year been? Depressing and hopeful. Generous and taxing. Bare. Lonely. Busy and full. It has stripped us down to the necessities of life and unleashed new challenges. An unprecedented and abrupt awakening to real-life consequential shit whose uncertainty shakes me to my core if I think about it too much. I can’t relinquish my thoughts to fear, because fear does not recede. It grows in our bellies and transforms us into childish monsters. For those who depend on me, I don’t have time to be a monster right now. I need to continue each day without energizing fear. Focus on the happy, the possible.

While each day is the same, and they all bleed together, our emotions ebb and flow without reason. Yet we can control our emotions if we strengthen our minds. This is the silver lining. We are granted this time to strengthen parts of us that we did not know needed muscle. I tell myself and I’ll tell you, to keep looking up and find strength in uncertainty. For in this newfound strength, faith will solidify. We will not digress.

 

 

 

 

When I was younger, 17, 20, 25, I always thought by the time I turned 35, my life would be established. I would have a family, a good income, a secure job and I would really know myself. I realized recently that I’ll be 36 in a few months and only half of those wants have transpired.

Why I chose the intriguing age of 35, I don’t know. It’s an age where you’re an adult but still young enough to be … young. Older people say, Oh you’re only 35, you still got time, and younger people think you have it all figured out. It’s a perfect age!

But I feel like I’m in the thick of it, it’s the last call for youth and once you leave, you better figure your shit out quick because here it comes… middle age.

I’m currently living in this fantasy called balance. It’s actually a made-up word because my girlfriends keep reminding me of the importance of “me” time, but my kids are walking reminders that I’m responsible for their lives, and they need to be molded correctly, which takes effort so that’s kind of important too. I take care of the house, cleaning, errands, the job – which I absolutely love now but still takes work. Time for “me” is divided between a hot bath or watching late-night stand up and cracking up with my husband. Some days are this and others are that; in the middle of this and that we talk about our hopes and dreams, then I squeeze in yoga. There are times we struggle for air to breathe or maybe just start crying, whatever works on the given day.  That is 35.

It’s not what I thought it would be but isn’t that how perception works? Here is the truth: I drive a 14-year-old clunking SUV. I can’t stand this car. The tint is peeling off and it’s always leaking some kind of fluid. When I pick up my son from school, I feel like the principal is glaring at me for allowing such a trashy vehicle onto the premise of her highly rated school. Then again I’m assuming and if you’ve learned anything by the time you’re 35, it’s that you cannot assume.

The principal is probably glaring at me in envy thinking, Wow, that mom has got it all figured out juggling three small kids with a smile. Is she 35?!

My home is a wreck. Except for my son’s bed that is overflowing with toys, every bed in the house is bare. The living room is stacked with every pillow in the house -including couch cushions- that are sandwiched on the floor, topped with random blankets. A tall branch cutting pole looms above the couch with a blanket tied to it, in hopes of creating the most elaborate fort we have seen. Laughter and tiny footsteps pound throughout the house at 10:30 at night. Arguments of how to build the best (and safest) fort ever incur between my husband and me, and finally the fort fails, we can’t agree. Yet as we look around we realize we didn’t really need it. We’ve got pillows stacked high, popcorn on the way and the kids are happy as clams as they pounce on each pillow.

This day has gotten away from us. How is it already 10:30 and we’ve yet to start the movie?! I remind myself it’s the weekend, so I won’t let time matter. Time is for everyone else.

We settle in to watch the latest superhero movie…and when I say settle I mean with a restless baby, an accident-prone toddler leaping on pillows only to barely miss the hard floor and an inquisitive five-year-old. This is our home.

Somedays I cry. Somedays I need to water the yard by myself for peace. Somedays I can handle it and laugh. The combination of these days is the life I’ve always dreamed of. There are times my mind drifts to what if… what if I didn’t have kids… what if I traveled… what if I was a traveling writer…  what if. I don’t make it that far before my mind snaps back to my chaos. If it were any other way, I know I’d never be content. This is the glamour I’ve craved.

So, lights, camera, movie time! Let’s try to make it to five minutes without pausing because someone has to poop.

 

 

 

From time to time I read up on this blogger, Liza Dora. I gravitate towards her not only because she is a mother and wife around my age, but because I adore her writing. In my opinion, she has the talent, strength and courage to write in a voice that I have always strived to achieve in my own craft. The way she holds a story together is woven through a poetic fabric that ties fact to feeling in a beautifully worded bow. She’s published books, has starred in a play and has a very successful blog. I find it all so inspiring.

Yet while it’s impossible for me to write like Liza, for the simple fact that I am not Liza Dora, I also find it so unflattering that I wish I could write like her. How insecure do I sound right now?

When a writer like her possesses that certain je ne sais quoi that I hold up so high, that I want to become, I begin to feel guilty for even thinking this way! As though her talent is something I could never aspire to, is completely the wrong way I should perceive her writing. It is the wrong way anyone should commend a person they look up to. All I can do is take what she has graciously given to the masses and let it inspire me to write…in my own scratchy voice. To humbly learn from her, applaud who she is, but never second guess my own talent.

I am supposed to write like Nicky and she is supposed to write like Liza. The world needs both of us to be our authentic selves and will be better for it.

 

My tiny, little wonder is here. My love, my darling, my baby girl has arrived. I am now officially a mother of three, a family of five and so, so blessed.

I won’t sugar coat anything though, it’s been hard these past couple weeks dealing with all the emotion that surfaces from having a child. My body is reeling in hormones and awkward feelings that I try to take with a grain of salt. The tears are constant. Sometimes I don’t know why I’m crying and other times it’s because someone looked at me the wrong way or the smallest inconvenience convened. Either way, I’m running to the bathroom to hide the emotional trail of wreckage called postpartum depression. It’s a mess.

On top of the emotional chaos, I’m submerged in my own pressure to feed her breastmilk. She did not latch because she is formula-fed at night, and pumping every 3-4 hours with three kids is at times impossible. Being a mother comes with so much pressure regardless if it’s from an outside source or not. I’m trying to get rid of the added stress I put on myself; albeit, it is easier said than done. I seem to love guilt because I can always find a reason to swim in it.

Then, my husband, my sounding rock, helps alleviate the worry and reminds me of all we have. With each tear I shed, he tells me he is here for me and will do whatever he can to support what I need.

No breastmilk? No problem! I’ll go get some formula. Sobbing because…you don’t know why? It’s ok, you’re a beautiful mother and doing great! 

He is right and that’s all I need to hear right now while these emotions pass. Don’t worry about the future, do not dwell on the past. Live in the present, without judgement and my mind will follow in ease. So, today if I need to cry and feed my baby formula, it is still the best day ever.

We did not know we were having a girl, but found out during delivery and I’m so happy we waited. The surprise was the biggest of our lives, one of the most fulfilling moments we could hope for. I now have a little me. This girl will be heard, understood and cherished. I will be the mother I need to be for her, and she will grow to be strong in all aspects of the word.

The truth is, I want the clock to stop ticking so I can marinate in every moment with my precious baby girl. The truth is, motherhood is a blessing despite all its hardships, and I’m proud to be the mom of this pack.

“Wellp, it’s over.” is what my 5-year-old loves to say every time we finish a movie or TV show, and that is exactly how I feel about 2018. Perhaps because my birthday is also at the end of the year that New Years has always been a significant time for me. A symbolic refresh of being numerically older and the beginning of a new year. Particularly for this new year, I have high hopes indeed.

Financially, emotionally, physically, professionally, 2018 has been hell. I cannot think of a worse year on record. Although there were some happy times like going on vacation, getting involved in a writing clique and getting pregnant, I also encountered the worse times of my life. Yet I cannot let myself think this year was an accident that shouldn’t have happened because it most definitely was not. As I am starting to learn and maybe I’m a little late in the game, but bad things happen for a reason. Bad things happen so that much more good can prevail in a way that wouldn’t have been possible without an unfortunate circumstance. Sometimes you didn’t know how much your life needed a rude awakening until it all unfolds.

So, with the new year and like many people, I am looking to see where I can fill the cracks in my life that led to tumultuous 2018. Most of these cracks will be filled with me doing more of what I want or need for myself, while letting go of what doesn’t make me happy or give me purpose.

As a mother and wife it is so easy to be too accommodating to your family, where putting yourself second is first nature. While I think it’s good to be devoted to family, I now understand that putting myself second has left me unfulfilled and underserving of my full potential. This spurred my biggest hope for 2019, for myself and for all the mothers and wives out there: let’s put ourselves first and make our lives what we want them to be. No one else can do this for us, but ourselves. No one else can be our hero or savior making everything ok; no one else will pull us up better than our own will and determination to make a better life. We must tackle our wants and needs, putting them into fruition for our own glory.

I am beyond ready for 2019 and all the amazing things to come. Happy New Year!

 

Time for myself sounds like a luxury that other people can afford but I never could. I used to feel guilty when I craved it, but now I know that everyone needs it to be the best version of themselves. So what do I do when I know this valuable time is needed, yet unattainable with a house full of sick boys? Between the throw up and the poop I need a freaking minute to myself!

Bath time for momma? The idea seems doable considering I don’t have to leave the house, but is actually naive. After I clear it with my husband, I sneak towards my tiny bathroom, excited for an hour of kid/ dog/ husband- free relaxation when my oldest stops me. Devastation is painted on his face as I realize he knows what I’m up to. There’s no tip-toeing towards freedom with an intuitive 4 year old on your tail.

“Momma? I just want to be with you!” his small voice whins.

“I know baby, but momma just needs to take a quick bath because her back hurts,” I plead. Being 27 weeks pregnant with a hernia the size of a baseball sticking out, kills your back. Yet, with all my aching (both physically and emotionally) it is no match for those sad, beautiful eyes looking up at me… and I cave.

Maybe I’m a sucker, maybe I’m a wimp. Whatever it is I’m definitely no match for denying my children’s attention. If he would rather lay on the bathroom rug just to be near me, I can’t deny him that. I guess I’m actually flattered.

Soon enough it’s not just him, but 3 of our dogs storm into the bathroom while I’m soaking, trying to read a book, pretending I’m alone. I could be seriously annoyed at this but then I know a time will come that this won’t happen. I will be alone someday, yearning to be needed like this. So, I just smile to myself, take it all in and know this is where I need to be right now.

It’s mortgage week and that means things are tight. $45 is what we are working with until our next paycheck and we still need gas for both cars and groceries. As I contemplate the routes I will take over the week to save the most gas and trim the grocery list to about 10 cheap, essential items, I feel tears welling up in my eyes. I want to breakdown, sell everything and start over, hit the re-do button. The button we all want to hit at some point in our life that would make everything better, the button that does not exist.

The truth is this is all my fault. I’m the irresponsible one who decided to get pregnant with number 3 in the middle of our financial upheaval. I’m the supportive wife, the dreamer who told my husband that yes he could leave his job and take a HUGE pay cut to pursue his dream of becoming a distiller. Knowing the financial burden would be tough, I told him we would figure it out; although, actually living it out has been worse than I expected, and I don’t have a solution for any of it.

Despite what we’re going through this is my real pickle: are we making the right decision of chasing our dreams, or should we instead be chasing the buck? Huge sacrifices are being taken right now in order to pursue his dream, while many people never pursue what they love if it’s not financially lucrative. Yet, those people can afford big homes, nice cars, vacations and fancy schools. We can’t afford to order pizza.

It is tempting. I work with people who make enough to buy whatever they want, and I’m not exaggerating. Yet while they aren’t miserable in their jobs, they are always stressed and have health problems as a result of it. They have not aged particularly well either. While I’ll admit to being envious of their wallets, I’m not of jealous of their career choices. Thinking about it, I don’t think I’d take their job even if I made all that money.

Perhaps to thrive or to strive is just a personal choice based on how bad you want that dream to come to fruition? What if we woke up one day to realize we never pursued our dreams? Would we be forever filled with regret if we did not try? I don’t want to ever know that feeling.

My husband had an opportunity he couldn’t pass up that would make him so happy, and despite all the sacrifices, I couldn’t be more thrilled for him. He wakes up and loves what he does, which is something I cannot relate to. I have to watch him do this, because witnessing this is somehow a win for the both of us. There will come a day when it is time to pursue my dream, and he will be my biggest supporter.

So, I buck up, dry my eyes and make the best financial decisions I can right now to make this work. Strive.

It has never gone away, not for a minute. I could kid myself for a while, play make- believe, thinking that I’m satisfied working for the man in my boring compliance job. I could go home to my family each night, pretend my day was fine, eat dinner, laugh, watch a PG movie, then tuck my boys into bed and fall asleep blocking out work and being “ok” with it… I could, I have… and I foolishly lied.

There is so much more to a person who is a writer then what they lead on. It is not status that motivates us or money or titles. Rather it is something innate, alive and meaningful. It is not a career that you fall into out of college because there is money to be made or job security is high; it is actually quite the opposite. I do not discuss this with anyone else other than writers themselves, since only they know the simple truth, but I will let you in on a little secret:

You become a writer because you have no other choice; it is a desire that never goes away.

A few weeks ago I found myself playing pretend again, this time in the middle of a writer’s conference. I was an imposter, acting like I belonged there and was worthy enough to be one of them. Sitting with actual writers, I scribbled notes of knowledge from award-winning authors and Pulitzer-prize winning poets. While feeling beneath everyone, the lowly compliance-hater acting like I could put sentences together, I also had not felt this high in a while. I was in my element, understanding exactly what these accomplished writers were talking about. Heeding their advice, hope was strongly alive with each stroke of my horrible hand-writing.

When the conference was over I drove home with both an enlightened head and fearful belly. What happens now? Monday would bring the unsatisfying job I dread, and while I did make a few connections I had no tangible prospects to be paid as a writer. Reality set in, until recently I realized something.

Reality is what I make of it and lying will not work for me anymore. While I may not be paid doing what I love, I will continue to do it anyway. I will continue the hunt to make my living as a writer because it will happen… one day.

What other option is there while I’m living?

 

 

 

I’m not one to travel anymore. I’m not one to take a risk. I’m not one to leave my family and be ok with it, like many other people I know. For a long time I thought this is what separated me from the rest of the world and I was perfectly happy to be different.

But here I am…alone in a hotel, at a new job, away from my family on work…but still not ok with it. At 32 I really feel like I’m finally growing up, meaning I’m doing what I don’t want to do but putting a smile on my face for the bigger picture, my career.

The last time I had to fly on a plane with short notice I was kicked off. It was a very last minute trip due to a tragic family emergency and I could not get myself together. A full-blown panic attack lead me to running off the plane, crying, leaving a disappointed family and terrified passengers who thought I had some kind of crashing premonition.

As unnatural and uncomfortable that flying is to me I don’t want that to be my experience every time…so let’s try this:

What happens when you are 40,000 feet in the air, in a crowded cabin and can’t find the motion sickness bag in the pocket in front of you? Your body is sweating and you’re anxious. On top of you head being punctured with a pounding headache, your stomach wants in on the fun and says, “Here I come!”

Vomit. Flys. Into. The. Aisle.

Across the aisle to my left, the poor passenger’s eyes grow wide as he consciously avoids looking at me. The body builder to my right, who is squished between a barfing, crying woman and a business man is doing everything he can to pretend he is somewhere else. I don’t blame him. This work trip is not fun and I’m debating on quitting as soon as I land.

After the flight attendant brings me a vomit bag and we begin our descent, I continue to throw up 9 more times. Quietly crying, I’m embarrassed and hating my life choices but there is nothing else I can do other than avoid eye contact.

Again, I find myself racing off the plane in tears. Darting towards the bathroom I hunker down in a stall to gather myself and figure out how to tell Jolly I can’t do this. Tell my new boss I’m not the girl for the job. Tell this airport I need to leave, but not through my connecting flight, in a car.

A few minutes and few breaths pass as my crying slows. My mind slows down while the self-doubt is pushed to the back of my head.

One thing at a time. One thing at a time. Step one: put something in your stomach and take Dramamine. Then you can figure out the rest. 

I pull myself together and leave the restroom. After finding my connecting flight I grab some crackers and motion sickness pills, I sit down and think about getting on the next flight to my final destination, Kansas City. The drowsy side-effect of the pills set in and all I begin to think about is a nap.

Oh Dramamine. You are a life saver. You make the next flight vomit free as I snooze away and arrive in no time. All is better once I’m on the ground to rent a car and drive 40 miles to my hotel.

A week away from my family and anyone I know is tough when I love being at home. I’ve created a beautiful family and little utopia that I CAN NOT let go of…and there in lies the problem.

I’ve been told the true path to a happy life is to stop worrying about things you cannot control, because then you are free to live.

I can control the outcome of an event about as much as I can control the weather. Of course I can watch the predicted forecast and do the best I can but whatever happens will happen regardless of all my fretting.

So in the scheme of things I guess it doesn’t matter if I’m at home crying about my fears or toughening up and owning my career…but I may learn more from getting on the plane, so I think I’ll try the latter.