the basics

The holiday season has a unique way of stressing me the fuck out. Sure, it’s (mostly) self-induced and (mostly) unnecessary. But it’s just a lot. Which is why it’s so important for me to take a minute and remind myself of what life is all about. In spite of all of the distractions life throws my way on a daily basis, what matters is actually quite basic.

The three beautifully spirited and complex souls who Joe and I have been given the absolute privilege of guiding through this thing called life are IT. Being given the opportunity to watch our three babes blossom into the humans they were born to be is all that counts at the end of the day, no matter how distracted we are by the rise and grind of our daily lives. No matter how challenging parenting can often be or how long the days frequently seem, I never— not even for a second— forget just how fucking lucky I am to be theirs and for them to be mine.

My kids and my partnership with Joe are what matters. They’re all that matter. The three humans Joe and I managed to create together— Marlo, Edie, and Knox— are the only reason Joe and I believe that all of the blood, sweat, and tears shed in the process of maintaining a family and partnership is worth it. They are our daily dose of perspective and an infallible reminder of why life is so magical, so painfully precious, and so breathtakingly beautiful.

I love you four more than I ever believed I was capable of loving anything.

Thank you for proving me wrong.

Forever yours,

The Mama

this is us

When your boyfriend of a few years breaks up with you via text message while he's drunk in Atlanta as you actively move your socks into an emptied drawer in his apartment, do not fret. Still call him every name in the book because he deserves to hear it. Just don't worry so much about what comes after that text message and the name calling. You will recover. He will keep his word and put forth continuous effort to avoid being-- in your words after the text message in question-- such a "spineless mother fucker." He will become one of the best men you've ever known. He will always have your back. He will stand strong and see you through some of your darkest days. He will still make mistakes and so will you-- some bigger than others-- but you will no longer regret that text message, if only because what comes after that text message is so much more important than whatever came before it. 

Long after the humiliation fades and that unfortunate situation becomes an inside joke the two of you can both laugh at, you will find yourself lying wide awake in the dark of night beside that same sleeping man in a human Tetris pile with three tiny souls who use your thighs and stomachs as pillows and your ribs as a punching bag. You will feel crowded. You will wish for more personal space.  For a single second, you will decide that you miss the days when your only problem was your boyfriend breaking up with you with a text message as you moved your underthings into his beat up Ikea dresser. 

You will look again at the man with the dark hair and the bad jokes and the light eyes that have always given away his smile, and it'll become obvious that it will never, ever be any better than it is in that moment. Listening to your middle baby snore and wildly flail her arms in her sleep... watching your son' bottom lip quiver... becoming alarmed at just how obscenely long your oldest daughter' legs have gotten recently. 

As you alternate staring at the three beautiful babies haphazardly layered between you and the man with a rogue toddler foot beside his right cheek and your own worn, soft body that housed and birthed and sustained them, it will occur to you that very few I told you so's will ever feel as good as this one. 

ten or so years later

I don't talk much about my marriage. At least not here. The reason being is mostly intentional; I believe that some things in life shouldn't be broadcasted, especially when the other player on your team is much more introverted and private than you've ever been. 

The other, maybe not-so-intentional reason I leave such a large part of my life off of these virtual pages is that I have a hard time putting what I have with Joe into so many words. Not because it's this perfect, almighty thing and words could never do it justice; but, because it is profound in its' normalcy and how do I even begin to describe the one thing that finally convinced me that being normal could be so, so good?

It's tricky. I don't want to oversell our relationship because the last ten years have definitely had their fair share of ups and downs, both contributing just as much to our relationship as the other. I also don't want to ignore it because doing so feels like I'm leaving out a main character in my life, one who I spend almost every day, and one with whom I've created a beautiful life (and two tiny humans) that I'm damn proud of.

We leave for Tulum in a couple of days to celebrate experiencing the highs and lows of life beside each other for ten years now. Typically, we're not the kind of couple to publicly butter each others' biscuits but ten years is Ten Years and Ten Years most definitely qualifies a biscuit or two to be buttered. So, in honor of a decade spent loving and loathing this guy (more on the loathing part, in a bit), I'd rather just tell you all that I've learned.

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The highlights aren't the only reel worth remembering. The fuck-ups, the outtakes, the bloopers, the behind-the-scenes, all of the work that nobody sees-- they're the moments that make you and your partner you and your partner. Joe and I weathered some real shit storms earlier in our relationship and I'd be lying if I said that I hadn't wished I could forget those periods of time at some point or another. The truth is, of course, that we learned a hell of a lot more about how to be good to the other because of the storms we trekked through, not the perfect runs in our relationship that photograph better for our long term memory box.

Apologies aren't asses. You should never follow-up an apology with a but. You don't necessarily have to apologize for the behavior if you can, in good mind, stand by it. However, I do believe that if you care about your partner in any real capacity, you should always apologize for hurting them without defending or justifying why you did it, even unintentionally. When a person tells you that you hurt them, you don't get to decide that you didn't or that it was somehow excusable. If you defend why you hurt the person you love while apologizing, you're not actually sorry. You're just an asshole with a half-assed apology. So, ere on the side of caution and don't do it. 

Agree on life's important matters. At some point during the first night we spent together, when we first began dating, I made a point to ask him if he was a cuddler. To put it nicely, I am not. To put it more accurately, I fucking loathe cuddling. It gives me anxiety and I start to sweat and begin experiencing feelings of claustrophobia. I have always likened a person who actually enjoys cuddling all night to a sociopath, in need of deep, deep emotional evaluation. And even though I wasn't thinking of a future with this guy at that point, I knew that Joe turning out to be a cuddler would be an immediate deal breaker and the relationship would be doomed. (Spoiler: he was not and we have been happily sleeping with three feet between us ever since.)

Pick your battles. I hate sports and find them trivial. And so. very. boring. So, naturally, I married and procreated with a man whose emotional state is so deeply tied to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill basketball program that he can't find the energy to utter a single syllable for hours after they lose while a loss during March Madness has been known to elicit a very quiet day or two. For years, I found this level of devotion to something I couldn't fathom why anyone would be devoted to... how do I say it?... I found it rather pathetic. Meanwhile, he couldn't wrap his brain around why I would rather spend four hours pinching my own eyeballs than sit through and watch an entire football game with a bunch of other maniacal and equally devoted group of Carolina-blue wearing fools. Over the course of years, we've accepted that this difference of opinion will likely always remain and it's something we both just have to get over and hate to love about the other.

Fight clean, play dirty. Don't say anything you can't recover from and once those apologies-without-but's are uttered, take all of that frustration and make up in the most creative way you can imagine. I hope you're catching my drift here. 

I'm not always right. Shocking, I know, but it's true. I'm much more willing to tuck my tail between my legs and own my mistakes when I accept that I'm actually capable of making them. The bottom line is that a healthy dose of humility goes a lot further than being a stubborn ass ever could. There's also something to having a partner who shows you more grace than you will ever deserve. (Thanks for that, Joe.)

Have some fucking fun. Or, better yet, have too much fun. For the first few years of our relationship, we each took ourselves way too seriously. Life is the most difficult simple thing ever but it doesn't need to be that serious, you know?! Now that we're a little more seasoned at life and are able to distinguish what actually matters from what we're told should matter, we make an effort to dance in the kitchen, act silly, take weekend vacations without the kids, drink too much wine, etc. It's going to be a very looooong life not having any fun with the person you intend to spend the rest of your life with.

Don't give up at the same time. I'm a realist; I have never lived under the assumption that Joe nor I will never doubt whether or not we can survive whatever storm we find ourselves facing. You are setting yourself and your partner up for failure if you expect the next fifty or so years to consist of nothing but bliss. But, I'm also an optimist in that I wholeheartedly believe that as long as we never give up on each other at the same time, we should, in theory, be able to figure it out.

J, thank you for proving me wrong when I told you all those years ago that we weren't meant be together and thanks for not being afraid of a little work. Thanks for helping me create those two spectacular humans we call our daughters. thanks for being so damn attractive. Thank you for the balance and for all of the laughs. thanks for always loving me the way only you can.

xx,

C

feels a lot like love

"The story of human intimacy is one of constantly allowing ourselves to see those we love most deeply in a new, more fractured light. Look hard. Risk that." -Cheryl Strayed

He could sense that the constant noise of a fuller-than-normal house was beginning to take its' toll on me. Concerned by my very rare silence, he told me to go take some time for myself. I assured him that I was fine, that the noise wasn't that bad, only to be given the look.

Oh, the look. I don't particularly like that look, if only, because it means that I've been figured out. The look tells me that someone else knows better. Even though my principles tell me otherwise, I no longer waste precious time protesting that look because I know that it's one of the things my husband does best. 

He sees me.

And we all just want to be seen, don't we? 

I haven't always appreciated being seen. Somewhere between desire to maintain a certain level of mystery in our relationship and realizing that true intimacy involves intrinsic transparency, Joe and I began seeing each other in a way that nobody else does-- or can. 

Even ten years in, it can still feel pretty fucking scary to walk around without any of the armor I spent my youth piling on. It often feels like the biggest risk of my life trusting someone to see me better than I see myself, to not abuse the power that resides within marrow of that trust. 

But, mostly, it feels a lot like love. 

Thanks, J, for always seeing me and for liking me anyway.

ily.

022/365

I married a man who bleeds a very specific shade of blue and, if you ask him, it's the only shade of blue worth bleeding. For years, I pretended to care; I thought that it would earn me points if my livelihood was even a fraction as dependent on the success of the Tarheels as his is. 

However, I'm not much of a bullshitter. 

The truth is that I couldn't give two single shits about sports. Mind you, I love a good healthy competition and going to actual games is a ton of fun-- if only for the pre-game beer and consuming enough nachos with fluorescent cheese product and pickled jalapenos to fill my yearly quota-- but it would be a rather exhausting stretch to say that I care.

Obviously, this lack of enthusiasm has frequently become a point of contention within our marriage, specifically in March when the stakes are highest; not only is Joe counting on his beloved Tarheels going all the way but I also find him pacing the living room, praying to the Gods of College Basketball Rivalries for the doom of a certain team* that is not allowed to be spoken of in our house. (I'm not kidding, either. For someone who isn't superstitious, my husband is rather adamant that no Blue Devil juju get brought into this Tarheel haven.)

Not only do I not care about sports, but I also hate sports memorabilia. I'm the old lady who refuses to display it in or around our home which, I'm sure, breaks his spirit a little more each day. I find it tacky. When we moved into our new home, Joe immediately began laying not-so-subtle hints that he'd like to mount a flag on one of the columns of our front porch so that we could proudly announce to all of Charlotte where our allegiances firmly stand. 

I may have possibly blacked out or hallucinated the question but I'm assuming that my response went something along the lines of, "Hmmm.... let me think. How about fahk no?" 

Which brings me to the mat welcoming our guests outside of our kitchen door. 

Joe and I are celebrating ten years of being in each others' lives this month** and if I've learned anything about relationships over the span of a decade, it's that 1) they're hard; 2) they're even harder if one or both of you is an asshole; and 3) solve as many disagreements with a friendly game of rock, paper, scissors; 4) if all else fails, figure out a compromise.

That welcome mat is me compromising.

If you listen very, very closely, it also sounds a little like hell freezing over.

Because nothing says romance like telling your spouse' mortal enemies to kindly fuck off.   

*And because I take my responsibility of ruffling his feathers and making fun of his unhealthy obsession, I'd like it stated for the record that he and his entire family grew up fans of the aforementioned unmentionable team. Joe likes to refer to that portion of his life as the Dark Years. He's so lucky I'm here to never let him forget that, unfortunately, we all have a past we're not proud of and that it's important that he own up to his monumental mistakes. *insert devilish grin emojii* Pun intended.

**It's not our anniversary, per se. We only celebrate our wedding anniversary because we may have had a few breaks from each other before babies. We still believe that our time spent apart counts for something because it was all a part of the process that led us to where we are now, which is arguing about unhealthy collegiate dependencies and playing Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine whose turn it is to wipe Edie's dirty bum. 

Also, by chance you, too, would like to earn Your Wife of the Year membership card, I got the 2x3 mat made custom here.