change

I used to be afraid of change.

I avoided it at all costs and found that change deeply unnerved me. It felt threatening to my emotional equilibrium. It broke down the walls of stability I’d spent my life creating, making me uncomfortably vulnerable. The scale of an impending change that loomed in front of me mattered not. Whether it be a slight change of timing or switch of evening plans or the death of a loved one— no matter the circumstances, any change I faced would inevitably be a catalyst for an existential crisis, leading me to question everything and everyone and whether or not I could count on anything of permanence when it could so easily change with the snap of a finger. For one reason or another, I spent my life believing that predictability equaled dependability and dependability equaled safety. Naturally, I became conditioned to crave and thrive when I felt securely wrapped within a warm cocoon of routine, predictability, and a very black and white outlook on life.

But then life changed. Like, really changed. And, as a result, I changed, too.

At age nineteen, I was set up with a twenty-one year old man whose life I almost immediately (and rather terrifyingly) pictured being intertwined with my own for as long as we both shall live. Naturally, he didn’t. We dated for a few years only to break up a few times, igniting existential quarter-life crisis #1 and #2. As you could have guessed, we ultimately made up and made Marlo in August of 2011. The day after my birthday in March of the following spring, we asked a judge to legally bind us together as partners even though we had felt like family for years. Our daughter was born in May. Hubby got accepted into NYU in August and, on December 13th, 2012, away we went. We left both of our families in the middle of winter to the one city in the world where you can ache of isolation and feel suffocated by claustrophobia simultaneously. Did I mention we did this all with an infant? And while I was very much suffering from severe postpartum depression? In the following two years, I managed to require two emergency organ removals, lost an alarming amount of weight, became a shell of my former self, threatened divorce as a result of my unhappiness, then worked like hell to pull myself together. And I did— at least as much as I could manage to function only to very quickly get pregnant with our second baby.

As the years spent in New York unfolded, most of the time I felt as if I were in survival mode— merely taking the gut punches of change life kept throwing at me and tried to remain afloat. Much to my surprise, I survived. Through hindsight, I’ve come to realize that while that chapter of my life was impossibly complicated and often felt paralyzingly terrifying, change can’t kill you. Over time, I even came to learn that it can even become a form of liberation and a bottomless well of excitement and personal growth when you’re brave enough to step outside of your comfort zone

Which brings me to today and my recent decision to paint our living room walls pink.

For the almost three and a half years after we moved back to Charlotte from Brooklyn, the majority of the walls in my century-old home were a delightful shade of gray. When we bought our home in 2015 on a wine buzz-induced whim off of the internet and site unseen, slathering the interior of the house in any of the four million different shades of gray felt safe. I considered white only to remember that I have children and I don’t particularly fancy spending the bulk of my day scrubbing peanut butter, goldfish crumbs, and feces-covered fingerprints off of of the bedroom walls. So, gray it was. Gray Owl, specifically, and for the bulk of these last three-plus years, I’ve never regretted going gray. Then, recently, I found myself feeling indescribably annoyed and filled with an almost physical dread every time I’d walk into our living room. I couldn’t seem to shake it. Then, one random afternoon, I walked into the living room and, like most epiphanies do, it finally came to me: I needed change. I was physically craving it and the magnetic pull to switch things up was unshakeable.

And so I did. I chose the color and painted the walls pink, never once questioning myself nor attempt to talk myself out of it even though I couldn’t be further from a pink kind of girl. And you know what?!? I FUCKING LOVE IT!! It is nearly if not completely impossible to walk into my living room and feel anything other than unbridled happiness.

(It’s still growing on Joe. Which may or may not have something to do with having conveniently left out the specific chosen color when we discussed painting the room but I am a firm believer that it’s always better to ask for forgiveness than permission so. Personally, I think he’ll learn to love it…)

All of this just to say that, ultimately, embracing change isn’t just about stepping outside of your comfort zone. Rather, elective change is standing firmly behind an intentional commitment to vulnerability and expanding beyond what feels safe and easy. As inconsequential and frivolous as painting my walls pink is, I’ve still found personal growth in listening to what my body was telling me and taking the opportunity to do something about it by embracing a new direction that felt less safe than it’ predecessor. Sometimes, saying “FUCK IT!” and simply going for it feels better than hiding behind your own self-imposed parameters that could be preventing you from feeling high on fucking life at the sight of your new living room walls.

Change is scary.

But change can also be really fucking exhilarating and, on occasion, really, really pretty.

nibbles

“Mom, I drew a picture of you! Look, there’s your eyes and your nose and your mouth. And those are your boobies and some nibbles. It looks just like you doesn’t it?!”

-Edie Cooper Fadel, almost 4

peace + quiet

Everyone shorter than me is finally asleep. I just came back downstairs after cuddling each of my babies as they fell asleep in a last-ditch effort to save face after an afternoon of their tempers and emotional cups runneth over and my dwindling patience remained in desperate and obvious need of a refill.

The fact is, I’m tired. Like, really fucking tired. Clinically and chronically and feel-it-deep-down-in-my-bones kind of tired. Knox being such a shitty sleeper— for what feels more like my lifetime than his mere eighteen months of life— occasionally gets the best of me and today certainly qualified as one such occasion. As flattered as I am that my little Neadrethal thinks I’m super human and can do all of the things while using blinking as an opportunity for micro-naps, much to my (and my children’) dismay, it turns out that I’m human. No matter how hard I try to keep my bad attitude and simmering resentment in check, it’s not unheard of for the exhausted psychopathic ogre in me to take over control of my body turning me into an all-around mean-as-fuck mommy who ends up profusely apologizing to her poor kids during bedtime cuddle sessions.

Which brings me here. Sitting at this computer, drinking hours old tea that is no longer even luke warm, attempting to type the mommy-guilt out of my system so that my maternal shame isn’t allowed to fester and impair any potential sleep Knox graciously allows me to enjoy tonight. I mean, what a cruel fucking joke that would be.

If I’m being honest— and I am but maybe should be— I’m not just tired. I’m also annoyed with the current season of mommy-ing I find myself consumed by. Quite frankly, if anyone else treated me the way my kids sometimes do, I most certainly would have already eliminated them from my life and, depending on the degree of their asshole-ness, punched them in the throat to really drive the point home. But when it’s my kids who are the assholes who make me feel like ramming my head into a brick wall would be infinitely more pleasant than whatever it is they are demanding I do? When it’s them taking home the douche bag crown of the day, why is it ME who ends up begging THEM for forgiveness? And for what exactly? For reacting like any normal human would to feeling habitually taken advantage of? I mean, how dare I cling to any of my remaining dignity and expect a person— whose ass I still wipe and whose fourteen snacks a day I am still asked to prepare, mind you—to dial down the attitude a few notches for the sake of everyone’s sanity?

The audacity I must possess… I mean, who do I think I am?!

So, in an effort to remember that in spite of recent events, that motherhood is by far the best and most rewarding adventure I’ve ever attempted, I’m going to continue to sit here alone in my dining room for a few more minutes of silence and being alone with my thoughts and the sound of my fingers tapping the keyboard. Once I’ve found my happier place, I’ll peel my ass up and off of this chair to go clean the kitchen and remove the food that someone— I’m won’t name names but it may possibly rhyme with fox and box and lox—managed to get on the ceiling while I was refilling his cup. After that, I’m going to take a very long, very hot shower, spending most of it laying on the floor of the tub because I’m that tired. I also just like the sensation— so sue me. Then, I’m going to slather a mask on my face that smells like yeast and raw vinegar but makes my skin positively glow with that fake-it-til-you-make-it-I-totally-got-eight-hours-of-sleep-lit-from-within luster I’m convinced is permanently out of my reach forever because I’ll likely never have a full, uninterrupted night of sleep again. Once my allotted thirty minutes of self-care have been tapped, I’ll promptly collapse into the middle of my bed since Joe is out of town for work and sleeping alone in the middle of the bed is one of my life’s guiltiest pleasures that I not-so-secretly take advantage of any opportunity I get. I’ll sleep for a few hours until Knox beckons my presence into his lair where I will be expected to cuddle and rock him back into slumber. And I will. But I’ll do so while silently praying to whomever is listening at such an ungodly time of night that his canines cut through his fucking gums already. Then I’ll do it again two hours later. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Until I finally wake up and do it all over but hopefully as a slightly nicer mommy and less like the psychopathic ogre I’m starting to recognize more frequently in the mirror.

All of this simply to say that being a mom is hard. And also relentless. Relentlessly hard. Relentlessly maddening. Relentlessly emotionally, mentally, and physically all-consuming. Relentlessly relentless. And as much as I don’t always like my kids— like right now, for example— I can’t get enough of them and their love and value them and their piss poor attitudes beyond measure. I mean, without those little tyrants in my life, I’m not so sure that being well-rested would even be so appealing.

Fueled by denial, delusion, and a whole lot of caffeine, I can do the hard things. Solidarity, sisters.

We got this.

32

I like birthdays. I believe in birthday weeks and the honoree being able to dictate the entire day. I love all that birthdays symbolize and celebrating life and how special a person feels when everyone who loves them tells them that they’re thankful that they were born. I am especially fond of a day that serves as an excuse to eat some form of treats with every meal.

I know so many people who hate birthdays—people who feel like if they ignore the day all together, they can somehow manage to avoid the fact that they are, no matter their attempts at reversal, aging. I’ve never agreed but I understand; mortality is uncomfortable to think about— let alone, accept. But, and though it may be morbid, the fact is that the alternative to celebrating a birthday and aging is… well… death. So many people aren’t afforded the luxury of celebrating another birthday so I make the effort to not take the gift of aging and living for granted by ignoring its inevitability or hopelessly attempting to avoid it.

Birthdays also present the perfect opportunity to reflect and to set intentions for the year ahead. Last night at dinner, Joe asked me how I’m feeling going into this next year and, for what seems like the first time in a very long time, I could honestly say that I feel utter contentment. Being able to say that— and actually mean it— feels like the ultimate accomplishment after this last year. Nothing dramatic happened this last year; rather, this last year provided me 365 days of opportunities to face myself in the mirror and sort out my shit. Not one single area of my life was exempt from strife— motherhood, my marriage, my family, my friendships, my mental and physical health, et. al. This merely means that who I am within every single facet and role of my life was given another chance to know better, to do better, and to expand and grow from the person I was the day before.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? When you face trials, you hope that you’re able to learn from it, coming to know better, and then— ideally—to do better. What I’ve realized this year is that any alternative is, to some degree, self-sabotage and the process of doing is a choice.

Ultimately, in spite of what may happen to us in life, we can only control how we react and how we use the experience to our advantage (or disadvantage) moving forward. More simply, happiness IS a choice. I used to cringe when people would say that to me or I’d run across it on Instagram under a picture of some perfectly curated messy kitchen or tropical sunrise.

HAPPINESS IS A CHOICE. How very novel.

I’d always think, It must be easy for you to say when you’re not clinically fucking depressed. It must be easy for you to say when you haven’t slept in seven years. Easy for you to say when you haven’t gone through trauma or sexual abuse or insert any X, Y, or Z that makes it easier for me to justify not being happy.

But, as it turns out, they were right. Happiness is an active choice and a learned skill that we have the ability to train just like anything else.

I can choose happiness by deciding to overcome the things that often make happiness seem like an elitist, privileged goal. I can choose happiness by not allowing life and all of its’ challenges to distract me from all that remains in in my life to be happy about. I can choose happiness by showing gratitude for every thing and every person that matters to me, always. I can choose happiness by showing empathy for others because I remember all too well what it’s like to be in the dark. I can choose happiness by keeping life’ challenges in perspective and focusing on the good that can and will come from any bad. I can choose happiness by leaning into discomfort because I know that the only way out is through. I can choose happiness by doing more things that make me feel good about myself and avoiding things/situations/people that make me feel badly.

I can choose to be happy because I deserve happiness and firmly believe that it’s always within my grasp so long as I do the things required of me that aid my holding onto it.

This isn’t to say that I don’t choose to acknowledge or continue to experience the darker parts of life or choose to pretend like shittiness doesn’t exist or bury my head in the sand until the problem goes away. Life happens and will continue to find creative and successful ways to get me down. But that truth only exists on the opposite side of the same coin where happiness lives. I don’t necessarily want both but the fact is that I need both in order to distinguish one from the other and to appreciate one when faced with its alternative.

As I enter into this next revolution around the sun, my only intention of consequence is to continue doing better now that I know better. I’ll do that by holding myself accountable to making happiness my choice. No matter the situation making happiness the more difficult route, I must remember that it’s still a choice I will always remain solely in control of making.

Life is beautiful, friends.

Go celebrate it, go do better, and choose happiness.

Cheers to another one…

x, C

five things | the same, but different

This current season of life— both literally and figuratively— has gotten the best of me. I’m not sure if it’s the weather or the specific stages my kids are in, but I’m struggling to find the joy in the average day. So, here are five things bringing me joy this week:

1. My kids— even though they’re the ones who are simultaneously making it difficult for me to see the joy right now. But, yes. The kids. It never fails to blow my mind how incredibly different each of my kids are. Marlo is showing signs of the teenage girl she will sooner-than-later become. She’s a deeply-sensitive feeler of all of the feels and believes everything in life should be fair and is quite the budding idealist. *le sigh* Edie Cooper, the wild middle child, is as unpredictable as she is cheeky and never fails to make us laugh. Waking up every morning is as good a reason as any for her to be happy and her disregard for negativity is contagious. To know Edie is to love Edie. And my lone baby boy? Dude is as brutish as a Neanderthal yet also as loving and affectionate as a Labrador retriever. He lives for his next meal and has the same almond shaped eyes as his sisters but with thicker, darker lashes. He rocks a man-bun/mullet coif that requires some real confidence to pull off. Which he does. He also has the largest ass I’ve ever seen on a baby and watching it jiggle as he runs away from me during a diaper change gives me life. This chapter of parenthood is hard but also full of magic.

2. My friend, Megan, just ignited my soul by introducing me to Dani Shapiro. I started with her most recent book, Inheritance, and holy hell. It’s a page-turner. As soon as I finish it, I’m going to dive into another of her novels. Have you read her books? If you have, which one should I pick up next?

3. I just ordered my second pair of denim overalls in one month. Today, I bought the blue denim version of the same black denim style I purchased a few weeks back because 1) they are alarmingly cozy, 2) they require little thought because all you need to add is a t-shirt and you’re done, and 3) they serve a utilitarian purpose by holding all of my kids little useless things they insist on carrying around only to refuse to hold any longer so they end up in my resistant possession. I will add that whenever I wear overalls, all I can think of is the line in Clueless when the spectacularly bitchy Amber looks with disgust at newbie, Tai, and says, “She could be a farmer in those clothes.” Amber is not wrong. I could be a farmer in these clothes but, you know what? I am HERE for it.

4. I’m trying to cut out coffee again. I’m currently sitting here drinking a coffee so, clearly, my willpower is standing strong.

5. It’s cold as fuck. *What does …as fuck even mean, by the way? I have no idea but it really gets the point across of how fucking cold it is. Should out to all the mid-westerners. God speed.