Two Years and a Mess(y Cake)

Hi, friends.

  It's been almost a year since I wrote my last post. Funny how life picks up in pace when your baby turns one; the year in between his last birthday and his coming one seems to have gone by in a blink. The kind of blink that felt agonizingly slow at times, but moved so very fast at the same moment. All of a sudden my baby is turning two in a few days. He has, in truth, not been my "baby" for a long time now. He's evolving and changing daily, growing more into a little boy with very decided opinions, and a wonderfully sweet streak of kindness.

  This year I decided that I wanted to celebrate his birthday on a (much) smaller scale than we did last year. I thought it would be fun to make his birthday cake myself this year, too. (Last year I had a wonderful friend make a [stunning] cake for his first birthday.) I've done cake decorating in the past, but not for more than a year, and not for someone else's birthday. (Read: I've made cakes for my own birthday but it didn't matter as much what they looked like because they were for me.)

  Needless to say my plan for his cake didn't go ... according to plan. At all. Raw fail, flop, mess, disaster, you name it, it happened. I got thinking as I was trying to fix my (one of many) errors. Why did it matter to me so much that his cake was perfect and looking awesome? Most of you know me pretty well, I would even say fairly well. You know I'm not one of those "Pinterest Moms" - I don't carefully stage my photos, my messy bun is actually messy, I often have kid goo on me, my makeup sure isn't perfect, and my version of trackpants are the trackpant kind.. loose. But for some reason this cake, his cake- it needed to be great. I was defeated, feeling like a failure, covered in food colouring and icing sugar and cake crumbs. My feet were aching and my head was aching, and as I was standing in my kitchen trying to painstakingly fix my glaring mistakes on this cake that I was sure was going to fall over- I realized something.

  I was thinking that my value as a mom was in what I was going to accomplish in this cake. It would be perfect- people would see that it was perfect- and maybe that meant that I was doing well as a mother. But I forgot (just a few) things. I forgot that Noah would love me anyway. I forgot that he looks up to me and would see that I was so very very disappointed in myself. I forgot that that would maybe teach him to be disappointed in himself, and that he would learn that his worth is in what he does (not actually the truth!). I forgot that life is messy. That my life is messy- and it's okay that it is, because it's a journey. I forgot that my image of myself to others isn't actually important. I forgot that messing up a cake doesn't make me a bad mom.

  Just like my having had to have a c section two years ago didn't make me a bad mom. It didn't mean that my body failed me. It didn't mean I was any less a mother than those who had birthed naturally, or those who had adopted. It didn't mean I was less. It's funny how things tie together in my head, sometimes. I've realized tonight that I'm still healing. Mentally, and emotionally. Parts of my heart are still raw. And, you know.. I think that's okay. I'm still on this journey.. this adventure called life. I'm still learning about myself and how I think and feel and react.

  So.. to all you mamas out there who have tried and failed with your kids, again and again- to all you dads out there who are witnessing your partners go through it, or are single parenting and going through it yourself. To all of you, regardless of your relationship status, who feel like you have failed in some way and not measured up. Take a breath. Give yourself a hug. Remind yourself you're on a journey. And please... laugh with me over my silly cake.

 P.S. the above photos are after idea #5 or 6... after my fondant burned (don't ask hahahaha), and I remade it, after my colours didn't turn out the way they were "supposed to"; after having to add supports so the whole thing didn't fall over, after my hands and clothes being covered in marshmallows and dye... there were a lot of mishaps. :) If it stays, there will be a number 2 on the top later. Oh. and I'm calling it a "geode cake" with a digger... because trends and because my boy loves "dan-oh"s. (diggers).

Sheets

  Sheets. Such everyday things. Not things, I would think, that typically inspire deep thinking. And yet, as I was making up our bed with fresh sheets, that's exactly what I was doing. I put the slightly older, not super new sheets on the bed, followed by a really old blanket of mine, and an even older blanket belonging to my husband, and topped the whole lot with our new(er) quilt, two mismatched who-knows-how-old pillows and two matched older pillows.

  

  I started thinking about how our bed with its layers of blankets represented our lives and its seasons. We have many pieces of furniture, linens, keepsakes, and other useful things in our home that represent who we are as people. These ordinary things characterize and define our lives together. Things we owned before we were married, and things we purchased together. Things that were given to each of us individually, and as a couple. 

  It's nice to think that I have a beautiful home, but what truly makes it beautiful is the life inside of it. The toys on the living room floor that aren't always picked up. The laundry in our hampers that is the clothing that keeps us warm. The crumbs on the floor that I haven't had a chance to sweep yet that mark our last meal together. There is beauty in the ordinary, and I'm going to look at it this week and be thankful for everything that I have. 

My Postpartum Belly

  I just want to start by warning anyone that is going to read this, that I will have some photos of my postpartum belly in this post. I completely understand that some may not want to see them, and that's okay. This blog is mainly for me, a chance to get my feelings out in writing. I have never promised it wouldn't be messy, emotionally or otherwise.
  Almost four years ago, I wrote a blog post about how I was feeling about living in the skin I was in. If you'd like to read it, here's the link: The Journey, Not the Destination. This post is essentially an update on that post, a little about what I have learned, and a little about what I haven't.
  As most of you know, a couple of months ago I had my first child, a son my husband Geoff and I named Noah. He's the sweetest little boy. He has a very calm disposition, he's curious about the world, and he loves to observe it. All this not to say it hasn't been challenging. Though he's only three months old, he's already teething which of course is a whole new ballpark.

  Well, being a mommy to Noah has changed me. It has not only changed me physically, but emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. Being a mother has changed me. I'm learning afresh who I am. My identity is constantly evolving and shaping itself. For a long time, I was afraid of being a mother. I was carrying around old wounds and deep hurts that made me not want to open myself up to having children. God used a situation with some doctors - where they told me that I couldn't have children - to make me realize how much I took it for granted that if I changed my mind, I would just be able to have them. I am so glad He did. 

  I never would have imagined the outcome, though. I have realized that I had no idea how easy some parts of mothering are. How instinctive it is to want to the best for Noah, and to check on him when he cries. To cuddle him and love on him in any way that I can. I also had no idea how very challenging it can be. How frustrated I can get with myself. How I can still function on three hours of sleep. And then the biggest lesson I'm learning, about my physical shell. How I am still caught up in appearances. How it matters so much to me what I look like. How easily I have forgotten that God calls me His. 

  And there's this balance... this fence I am constantly walking. Knowing I am God's, and that I am beautiful in His sight, and knowing that the state I am in is not healthy. The balance between, "you have stretch marks, you're a warrior, they're beautiful", and "those are so ugly, why on earth would you show them to the world?". The struggle of not looking perfect and knowing that's okay, but also knowing that to be healthy, to treat my body like the temple it's supposed to be, is the right thing to do. The struggle of trying to get healthier, but to not overdo my recovery. The struggle of patience. The realities of my maternity clothes being too big, and my regular clothes not fitting correctly because I have this belly in the way still- protruding from having not healed yet, and from too much accumulated fat. 

  Last night I finally was able to get on a pair of pre-pregnancy pajama pants comfortably. It sounds like a small thing, and yet to me, it's a victory. It made me realize, though, just how much I am still stuck in the mud. How much I still care. How much that caring is equally good, and bad. How it's so drilled into us that we have to look a certain way and buy certain clothing or wear certain makeup or get a tan or don't be too skinny or too fat or too strong or too weak or too...you. How to not be unique. How to be a mommy- but don't look like a mom. How to be cool and hip as you wheel your stroller in the grocery store or the mall or for a walk. How to have it all together. 

  My reality is that I'm a mess. I'm stuck wearing maternity clothes and nursing clothes and feeling uncomfortable. Having my hair up all the time (even though down, before baby, was my preference) in a messy bun (and when I say messy bun I don't mean the hip kind). Barely wearing makeup anymore, sometimes wearing my contacts. Knowing how much stuff I can sling into the diaper bag and exactly how many things I can carry before I get tired, but then not knowing how much I can do without overdoing it and hitting a wall of exhaustion constantly. Being covered in baby barf and drool and possibly poop are normal past times for me now. 

  I've also learned my perspectives of me are so skewed, so crazy, so wrong. On our honeymoon I remember thinking that I had too much fat on my body. I weighed 90lbs less than I do now. I had the tiniest little rolls. My perspective was way off, and extremely unhealthy. It still is. Here's my postpartum baby belly in all it's glory. I kind of like to think it looks like I got mauled by a tiger.

  

  Here's the thing. Somehow I was expecting that after birth things would go back to normal, at least normal for my belly. But normal never carried a child. My belly is currently around the size it was when I was about four months pregnant. Here's some belly pictures from when Noah was in my tummy. 

20 Weeks

27 Weeks

31 Weeks

36 Weeks

  I honestly don't know why I thought things would go back to "normal". And you know what- that's okay. Because normal was still wrong- at least mentally. My perspective was still skewed- still is skewed. I'm trying to get it straight. That's why I wrote this post. To let whoever is reading this, and to remind myself- I'm still a work in progress. It's okay to not be sure. It's okay to be scared. It's okay to be figuring out who I am. It is okay to love the stage I'm in- to love my belly- because it gave me Noah. And it is also okay to recognize this is not the place I want to stay.

  I guess all I really want to say is...love yourself. Wherever you're at. Join me in my journey.