Category Archives: blogging

Jan1

Will Power, Baby.

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I’m not supposed to lift weights. I’m not “supposed” to do a lot of things but Friday I happened to get on the scale to find out that I’ve lost almost 10lbs. in one week. Since I accidentally had gluten a couple weeks ago, I’ve been suffering from severe and chronic migraines more often than not. If anyone has ever had one, then you know the struggle to eat. Food—the smell, the sound, the act—is a ticket to Pukedom. Not my ideal holiday destination.

Yesterday I got back into the gym for the first time since just before Thanksgiving. I died and it felt amazing…somewhat. I made it in again this morning for the second day in a row and hit play harder. I decided to do weights after running and was forced to cut it short. Lifting isn’t supposed to be on my fitness agenda. Not yet, anyhow.

I started physical therapy sometime in middle school. When my last physical therapist moved out of state a year after Evelynn was born, she recommended yoga. I’m not just flexible, I’m loose-jointed and hypermobile. It’s easy for me to do harm to my joints without knowing it, hence why the only body weight I’m currently allowed to lift is my own. But I’m a firm believer in mind over matter, the power of will power, and pushing limits.

Before Evelynn, I was about 25lbs. heavier and it was mostly all muscle. When I started physical therapy back in the day, it came with strict workout regimens and a hell of a lot of modifications. If I wanted to keep playing soccer, I didn’t have a choice. I worked daily to build muscle to control my hypermobility. But I lost all of that after my pregnancy. And as amazing as it feels to be back in the gym, it is equally frustrating. I can do a 60- to 90-minute intense yoga flow but can’t last in the gym. Yes, frustrating. Inhale the good, exhale the bullshit….Namaste.

Today I ran two miles for a warmup, and likely for the second time in my life, I’m guessing. First off, you have to know getting on a treadmill and running is an accomplishment for me every time. I hate treadmills. They freak me out and give me anxiety. Yes, that’s right, I have a fear of treadmills. Kind of like my fear of elevators. (Don’t judge.) Secondly, I hate jogging. I hate going slow. I’m fast. I’m a sprinter. I’ve always been one of the fastest players on the field but I can’t run for shit. So I cranked that baby to 7.0 setting and with every step I told myself “Do [step] not [step] touch [step] that [step] butt [step] on.” I didn’t move it up, I didn’t touch it. Fucking will power baby and I made it two miles. Hashtag winning. Third, I felt it—the exhilaration, the triumph, the exertion…and the shakiness.

When I moved on to lifting, I about fell over. I had to cut it short, skip to lunges, and get dizzy during abs. By the time I was done, I was ready to pass out and fall in a grave. And I don’t mean to sleep. The scariest thing about working out for me right now is knowing I’ve fainted before overexerting myself and I have a habit of not just pushing the boundary line but passing it so far it’s in the distant horizon behind me.

I need a workout buddy to force me to quit before I get to the death stage.

Why am I even talking about any of this? Because of how much my social news feed is filled with resolutions to a skinnier you. Size shouldn’t matter. Don’t support products pushing you to get skinny. Take it from a girl who is skinny: its overrated and a derogatory term. If you want to get and stay fit and healthy, that’s something entirely different. And 98 percent of individuals won’t even keep with their resolutions. It’s a fad. A temporary trend more temporary than those 7-day quick diet fixes. Who says you have to start getting better in the new year or on a Monday. Stop waiting and wasting time. If you really want something, you’ll start it now and keep at it. Hence why only 2 percent stick with their resolutions—they likely started early, had a plan, and knew their destination.

If you hit the gym, go in with a goal and two plans in case the first one is too much to handle. Listen to your body. Know your limits. Push them by inches. Know that by pushing inches you’ll last longer and go miles. You won’t get injured or over exerted. More importantly, don’t do it because it’s trending or a resolution. Do it because you want to make a healthy change, whether you start it Wednesday or in two months. Just make sure you get that will power on check first, it’s half the battle.

Dec31

Hike Mountains With Me.

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Confession: My biggest regret since entering the dating world, specifically online dating, is not keeping a journal of notes to turn it all into a bestselling novel. That shit would be a one-way ticket to the New York Times Bestseller list and the downpayment for a writing home on a beach down south or a cabin on a lake up north.

One thing I’ve learned is how strong the human spirit is. We are resilient when we want to be. Our will power is not something to be taken for granted or overlooked. At 27-years-old, I have seriously contemplated giving up, forfeiting the dream of a big family, and entering into a fuck buddy only relationship for the rest of my life to fix those needs. But even those relationships can’t be trusted, and the idea of exchanging vows with a vibrator is even too much for myself to handle. (Pun not intended, surprisingly.) And like any single person, the questions arise of will I ever find someone. I don’t have a fear of ending up alone, I have a fear that I will overthink things or run a love into the ground before we even have a chance to fly.

My last relationship, we lived in the fast lane. It didn’t last long but it seemed we rushed everything in just a few months. So much so that when I broke it off, I had serious doubts of was I running? Would I regret this and not be able to fix it? Or could ending it be the best thing for my future? Turns out, I never regretted it, it was just a fear of not finding someone that made me hesitate. But what if that wasn’t the case?

People generally seem to think I’m a very closed off person because I suffer from severe resting bitch face syndrome. Yeah, it’s a thing. Too often in life I get “you were too intimidating to approach.” I don’t think guys realize what they are saying with this statement: 1) I’m scary (thanks for that by the way), and 2) they aren’t man enough to take the risk (thank you for automatically disqualifying yourself, that was easy). Then, for those who do take the leap, they’re surprised when I turn out to be “real” or “unfiltered” or “candid” or “open”—their words, not mine. I’ll let you in on a little secret: I’m the most open book you’ll ever meet but just because I’m so honest doesn’t mean I’m so quick to let you in.

And suddenly, we hit the hardest thing about dating as you grow older. You date more, you get hurt more, your heart bars its windows and locks its doors. You learn to give it everything, take chances, without allowing yourself to freefall. You learn to open up without letting them in.

I live in my head. I’m such a simple, low maintenance gal guys quickly assume I’m very chill. They’re right, I am. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a tendency to overthink things. I’ve just become very good at telling myself to shut the fuck up. I think things through—whether its dating, health, career—from every angle I look at the different paths a choice could lead me down, the repercussions, the negatives, and then I tell myself to get over it and deal. To take the chance. To see where it goes. Why? Because I’ve learned my strength, my independence, my resilience.

That’s why we get back up, put ourselves out there repeatedly—we know we will survive.

At least, I know I will.

This past year, I’ve dated a few guys. And by dated I should more accurately say “done stints” as they never made it pass more than a few dates or hangouts or whatever we’re to call them these days. Unfortunately, I seem to have a knack of getting hooked on the guys who had a number done on them. Guys who were cheated on, have trust issues, are scared to take any leap, or who are already thinking about the repercussions of a breakup before we’re done with the first date. That last one is the biggest pet peeve. I have this theory that if you’re already preparing for a breakup, you’ve already determined how the relationship will go—down the drain. And what does that say about me? Enter insecurities. It’s so easy to doubt yourself when you seem to hit it off with someone and suddenly they’re preparing for the crash without ever having hit the gas pedal.

But I don’t want a guy to take the wheel of the car. I don’t want to fall. I don’t want to be an accessory or a trophy or just the girl the guy comes home to.

My last two relationships were with guys who built dreams and wanted me to ride along. They said it was for our future without asking what I wanted or my goals in life. Or they know my goals but didn’t account for them. (Apparently, wanting to be a writer is “childish” and “not actually a dream for a career.”) Here’s the issue with dating today: we are so focused on meeting our own dreams and want someone beside us for them, we fail to allow their dreams to flourish, too. As we get older, we get more set in our ways. We’ve grown into who we are without allowing someone to grow with us. It’s depressing.

The best thing I ever did was become I mom. I don’t doubt that for even a second. But I won’t lie and say it hasn’t created some insecurities or fears. It’s harder to date. It’s discouraging to hear a guy tell me he likes me but could never love another man’s child as if s/he were his own (okay, goodbye). On the reverse side, it’s disheartening to know a guy is scared to date me because he’s scared of loving my daughter and then losing both us in a breakup (again, pessimistic much?). It’s difficult repeatedly opening myself up to guys who take for granted my time—time spent with them, is time away from daughter, do I really need to explain this?—or who get upset because I can’t drop everything to hangout last minute—again, I really shouldn’t have to explain how I need to plan in advance for my kid to be watched—or who waste my time talking until a better, single nonmom comes along to grab their attention—you, sir, are an asshole of the most definitive sort.

I don’t believe in sitting on fences. If a guy wants to keep me on the sidelines, I’ll join a different game. That hesitance speaks volumes. I want to hike mountains and stand in the clouds.

You wanted me to be your better half,
for you to complete me
when I wanted a better man
& to be whole on my own.
Dec4

Death Never Scared Me.

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Death has never scared me. And anyone who has driven in a car with me will tell you the same. I was brought up believing it was natural; how and when we go is, for the most part, out of our control; some people, who we never think deserve the second chance at life, are given a miracle while others, who touched so many people in so many ways, who were the epitome of greatness, are taken too soon. It’s one of life’s greatest tragedies and mysteries. You will swim your head into the bottom of a bottle of whiskey chasing such answers, letting your mind never move on from the whys and hows.

In one week, I lost a young relative I didn’t know as well as I should have and a professor who I attribute 85 percent of my writing skills to—he pushed his students to be vulnerable in their writing, to ask themselves the hard questions of why they make certain choices in their style, diction, format, tone, etc. He was always so quick to write a recommendation letter for me and it was his comment regarding me dropping out of the Written Communication M.A. program this fall—it happened with his first M.A. program of study, too—that lead me to be entirely okay with my decision.

I try not to ask myself why; why we lose some too early in life and why others spend a lifetime suffering. I have to believe there is an afterlife of peace—I refuse to believe that after Taylor has spent his life suffering, he will suffer after death as well. Life can’t be that cruel.

No, death has never scared me…until Evelynn came along. Then everything changed. Even my driving. I don’t tailgate as bad as I used to—though, that may also be because I’m no longer in a rusty truck (this WILL change next year; I need a truck, yesterday). I have this insurmountable fear that Evelynn could be taken from the only other people she really knows, her grandparents, losing her entire home in the event of my death. It gives me hives, the possibility. My jaw clenches, my throat tightens, my body becomes rigid. The very idea makes me nauseas.

She’s a girl of routine. She likes her morning breakfast in Taylor’s room watching television with him. She likes her movie before bed in my room. When she wakes up in the night, she scurries into grandma and papa’s room. She starts her days off with juice and then it’s water for the remainder of the day (she doesn’t like pop and carbonation, thank god). She has a strict gluten free diet that most people simply don’t understand. She’s bossy when it comes to Taylor’s needs—heart or oxygen monitor going off, his show is over and needs a new one.

Then let’s not forget every parent’s fear: growing up without an advocate. Everything I do is done with my daughter in mind, every decision. Who and when I date, my work ethic and career choice, the car I drive and my choice in purchase, the routes I take, my decision to stay at home despite the blow to my independence.

Then there’s more: will she remember me? Will she know my love for her is unbreakable and everlasting? That simply the sight of her fills me with such pride and light? They say there’s nothing greater than a mother’s love, I can believe it.

Yes, death itself has never scared me. It still doesn’t, for the most part. It’s the impact on Evelynn that I fear.

Dec1

Light Up YOU.

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I can look in the mirror and pick apart my flaws. I often do. It doesn’t take much. The fucked-up eyebrows I gave myself on purpose back in high school because I hated the emphasis people put on beauty and makeup and how they should be a certain shape or only so bushy. The acne breakouts from stress and my need to pick—I hate this about myself, how I take my stress out on my body. The small boobs that rival a scrawny prepubescent boy’s; so small an ex asked me if I’d consider implants before he became overtly happy with the pregnancy boobs I was later granted and then disappointed again when they disappeared; so small he wasn’t even the first to ask me if I’d consider getting implants. The sternum that points out and highlights my already small boobs, that I was relentlessly teased about when I was young, that I’m still highly self-conscious of every time I take my clothes off for a guy. How I went from a little too much meat on my hips to a boney ass in less than a year.

Oh yes, my body isn’t perfect and I’m the first to notice it.

You’d never guess with a glance at my Instagram account, though, with the selfies that pepper my page and the abundance of #youareenough quotes. When I realized how unhappy I was with my looks, I forced myself to take selfies and accept my looks. I never wanted my daughter to grow up doubting herself—her mind, her strength, her wit, her beauty, everything—and began to change my view of myself, my outlook after she was born. When I’m told I’m beautiful, my immediate thought most times is still, “and you’re so full of shit” or “are you for real?” before I respond with the appropriate “thank you.” It’s a work in progress. Society teaches us that to accept our beauty makes us conceited, to not accept is insecurity, and to question is appropriate—unless we somehow have mastered skinny with curves and flawless skin. I haven’t.

I’ll never forget the Halloween a few years back when my drop-dead gorgeous friend turned to me and said, “T, tonight is the first time I feel pretty. I haven’t felt like this in years.” My jaw hit the floor. I couldn’t believe she would doubt her looks when for years I’d watch guys fight over her and comment on her natural beauty. But how many people question their looks? Stare at themselves in the mirror and pick apart their flaws, put everything they have into diets and fitness and makeup and clothes to change their appearance? I don’t want my daughter to dress for anyone but herself.

I want her to shatter glass ceilings, as either a plain Jane or with purple streaks in her hair and a tattoo sleeve on her arm or in high heels and pearls or as anyone in between. I want her to know there’s more to her than looks. I want her to be able to look at herself and not only accept her but be happy, too.

I want her to shine. She lights up my world, why shouldn’t she light up her own?

And I want the same for you.

Oct18

Be You Unapologetically.

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Tomorrow Taylor turns 20. That’s insane. I always get asked what is wrong with him or more specifically, “What does he have?” But doctors don’t know, there isn’t a clear diagnosis, and people tune out his issues, not grasping the severity and losing interest or becoming uncomfortable. Instead, I’m telling you this:

Stop smoking. You have clean lungs you don’t need suctioned multiple times a day to breathe. You aren’t hooked up to an oxygen monitor—yet. It’s an insult to a little boy who has never smoked a cigarette in his life that you freely walk around with that white stick between your lips and between your fingers and crack jokes about having a smoker’s cough.

Stop wasting your day on the couch. You have two functional legs. You can walk. You can run. You can hop, skip, and jump. Build a snowman and take your kid(s) sledding, and then sled yourself. You aren’t confined to a wheelchair. Take the stairs without complaint when there’s a line for the elevator. Stop bitching when someone beats you to a good parking spot and you have to walk the length of the lot—you can do it! Stop complaining about boredom and endlessly flipping through stations and not having anything to do—you have the world at your fingertips. You don’t have to have your parents roll you from side to back to side routinely throughout the day so you don’t get bedsores.

Step outside. Again, you have the entire fucking world at your fingers tips. You get to witness the seasons change. You watch the leaves fall and spring bring rebirth. The only time Taylor goes outside is from the house to the vehicle and from the vehicle to the hospital, and then from the hospital to the vehicle and from the vehicle to the house. Breathe in the fresh air. Soak up the sun. Bathe in the heat. Dance in the rain. Jump in the leaves. You can breathe fresh air without being seized by a fit of coughing, do it.

Stop being stagnant. If you aren’t happy with your life, move. Take four steps back to make five leaps forward if that’s what it takes. You have the ability to change your life. It starts with a dream and is implemented by action. Just do it and buy the Nike apparel if it motivates you to do so even more.

Lose or gain the weight. I’m against body shaming but I’m not talking about the lack of or robust of curves you may have. I’m talking about obesity and anorexia. I’m talking about overeating or starving yourself. This little boy is fed through a G-tube and at about 5’5” weighs only 68lbs, maybe. He used to love ice cream—eat your sweets without feeling guilty. Make it happen by eating healthy 80 percent of the time. If you complain to me how you’re overweight or need to lose weight but fail to make changes in your diet and physical activity, I will tune you out. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear about your high blood pressure and high cholesterol as I watch you eat a pound of bacon while binge watching Netflix. I don’t want to hear about how you’re a perfect candidate for heart disease but are lucky enough to still be walking when there’s a boy laying in a bed all day every day who is unable to take the steps to make the changes. But you can, and you choose not to. Stop it. See above, stop wasting your day, stop wasting your breath, stop complaining about boredom, and start moving. Be active.

Be you. Be you unapologetically. In a healthy and positive and do good manner, be you unapologetically. Taylor loves people. He loves interactions. He loves attention. But he can’t talk and he can’t communicate, making it hard for many, myself included, to relate to him. If he were to go out, you’d stare at him and his differences and he would smile at you. He’s a hermit due to his condition with a social butterfly inside waiting to be released. It won’t be. He’s cocooned in his room. The few times he was taken out to restaurants in his wheelchair, he was happy. But his happiness becomes the noises patrons get annoyed at, wondering why his parents won’t shut him up so they can enjoy a meal in peace. Eat at home. Your judgments shouldn’t enter the world. Leave them at your door, in your own home. Since Taylor’s last big surgery back in 2012, the one that landed him in bed and on oxygen with lungs that needed suctioned, he hasn’t been out to a restaurant. My parents don’t want to disturb other patrons and be in the midst of negative attention. I don’t doubt they would love to shout, “Fuck you all, this boy deserves to be in public without scrutiny”—I sure would, I can be unladylike and not-at-all classy like that—but that’s an unnecessary confrontation. Shave half your head, cover your body in ink, wear stripes with polka dots, sing at the top of your lungs at the grocery store, and be silent when you don’t want to say anything and talk endlessly when you have a lot to say. You can go out and express yourself. Do it. Don’t let society hold you down. Stand up and be you, unfiltered.

Tomorrow Taylor turns 20 and we are at a loss at what to do in celebration. This is a huge milestone—him surviving two decades. We never expected this. We were told not to expect this. We could easily not do anything, treat it like any normal day, and he wouldn’t know the difference. But that idea is absurd. Outrageous. Insulting.

He can’t blow the candles out on the cake he can’t eat—there will be no cake.

He is sunshine, how he smiles despite his troubles, his pain, his suffering. Don’t put out another’s light, make it brighter with your own. Celebrate. Go out and appreciate your life for him. Breathe, run, be you. Fucking shine.

 

img_7472

Pictured: Taylor with his niece Evelynn. Told you he loves company, & she loves giving it.

Oct13

Tulips In Springtime.

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The past year has been one long lesson in dating, with September marking the one-year anniversary of my reentering the dating world. My single mom status led my daughter to be assumed as “baggage” by a number of guys (assholes!), easiest method of knowing not to give them my time. My single mom status also led to plenty of guys getting “cold feet” at the last minute, canceling the night before or the day of a date, only to never be heard from. Again, quick method of determining who was worth my time, I just wish I hadn’t wasted the time leading up to that point. Then there’s the guys who assume because I have a child, I’m quick to bed. Honey, I’m not desperate—I’m borderline shallow.

Clarification: entering into the world of online dating.

Six sites I have done stints on in the past year, and most of them didn’t last a week as the blocking of assholes became too much of a hassle. Tinder, the notorious hookup site, was downloaded and deleted monthly. Weekly I swore off guys. And weekly my high standards inched higher.

What happened when a guy called up a girl? Being asked out in a text message is so unflattering, almost degrading. And can someone please explain to me why guys want to “hang out” but then refer to it as “dating” later on? Like no, dude, two totally different phenomenons there. I know, I don’t sound like I just turned 27 yesterday. This is the norm, & completely unacceptable to me, to many. Then why do we accept it? Go with it? Allow for it?

What happened to chivalry? Dave Chappelle thought women killed it and Meg Ryan believed it simply caught the flu. I think it hides in shadows like abandoned, trapped flies.

Last weekend I went on a date and it blew my mind when the guy held open my door. Every time. It’s a lost art but it wasn’t lost on me, not when I nearly asked him what he was doing—I thought he had to rearrange shit or was simply out of it. (Awkward turtle.) It’s sad when such an act, one many fail to do for strangers—we should!—is lost in a world where kind acts need to thrive. What happened to the simple “hello good mornings” and “goodnights”? Those have always been a favorite in dating but rarely appear throughout the entire relationship. They eventually get swept under the rug with everything else. After the first impression has been made, why do people slack on the simple things? Relationships are often made and kept over the little things—it’s the little things that will also often begin to drive the wedge into the relationship.

Male or female, reentering the dating world is always ripe with fear and concerns. With each ex, I learned something about myself, what I’m not willing to put up with, how I want to be treated, and what I deserve. And it has also added up to a mountain of trust issues and second-guessing the guy’s intentions.

I have always jumped into relationships, letting the guy choose the pace—fitting considering my nonchalant attitude of going with the flow, but that only lasts until I realize we aren’t on the same page. I’ve been with the guy who wanted me to commit, for us to be exclusive, only to find out the beginning was an act or the same rules didn’t apply to him—he had needs I couldn’t fulfil due to distance, I couldn’t expect him to do the same, according to him. But I don’t do cheaters. I don’t do second chances.

The disrespect and “not good enough” that comes with cheating is mind-fucking. If they remembered you, you weren’t enough to keep them from performing the act. If they did remember you, you didn’t mean enough to keep them from performing the act. It’s a lose-lose. The hilarious part is when they use the former as an excuse. Thank you for telling me how little of significance I rank in your life.

I stayed with Evelynn’s father longer than I should have. It was another relationship battling distance, among a slew of other issues. I lost myself. I compromised too easily and lost my identity, what I wanted. I settled for settling. It was over before it ended. When it did, I went off the grid for nine months. Then I jumped into a relationship with a guy and once again sidelined what I wanted and needed in a relationship to be happy. It only lasted through the holidays but afterwards, I went off the grid again.

I compromise myself in dating.

I find myself in solitude.

It’s a trend.

Correction: it was a trend.

Dating is harsh. It’s constantly opening myself up to heartbreak and re-erecting walls when they confirm my fears, only to be the one to demolish them again if I want to make an effort. It’s exhausting and draining. It’s empowering when I remember I control my happiness—it’s ultimately my decision to allow a guy in. I control my own happiness. I dictate my future.

Dating might be degrading and harsh but I also learn my strength, the heartbreak I can take.

We aren’t made of glass to shatter on the floor, prick others to bleed with us. We aren’t rock, to stand still and lie doormat, to crack and be irreparable. No, we are tulips. We soak up the sunshine and take beatings from rainstorms, bending until we break…and then we grow back again to reveal our beauty, our strength.

We are tulips in the springtime.

Sep30

The Motherload (no pun intended).

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Tuesday was marked with the motherload of meltdowns starring me, party of one. And I don’t cry. Wednesday followed in a broken-down mood as I attempted to overpower it with a dominating attitude. Thursday was the lost soul that led up to me waking up this gloomy Friday morning in clarity—and dropping out of my MA program at Eastern Michigan University. But that phone call brought sunshine to this rainy day.

I’m not a gal who cries. I can count on one hand the number of times I remember breaking down in tears over the last decade. Unless I’m watching The Voice—there’s something about watching someone chase their dreams, don’t judge me, and that’s just a tear brimming on my lower eyelid anyway—I’ve got the round the clock dry eyes to match the resting bitch face. But Tuesday I bawled for a good hour and had the running mascara and puffy red eyes and migraine to prove it. My breaking of the dam and unlocking of the backup floodgates was a major concern, for me and for my parents. (Mom: “Well, I’m concerned. You’re not one to cry. We need to do something about this. We can’t just let it go.”) So I looked at my life and all the stress and Tuesday night I went to bed defeated, under the expectation that I could do nothing about this.

Wednesday, as I drove to my night class on the opposite side of Ann Arbor—forty minutes of allowance to purely stew—I wondered why I’m so hard on myself. How I can console and accept it when friends cry but think it childish and weak and entirely inappropriate for me to do the same. I told myself it was okay. I was allowed this once in a decade break.

On Thursday, yesterday, that was no longer okay. Why was I settling for that unhappiness? Why was I even pursuing a MA program degree that is heavily and disappointingly misrepresented? The Written Communication program I was so excited about being accepted into last spring and beginning this fall turned into a program heavily geared towards Technical Writers and defending the 90 percent focus on this particular field. Forget the design and social media organization and blogging and professional writing aspects. Those were insignificant. And those were the reasons why I was initialing pursuing this field.

This morning I went through the list in my head as to why I was unhappy and everything boiled down to this course of education. I couldn’t let the fear of people viewing me as a quitter or the pressure from family to further my education make me stay on this course. I NO LONGER WANTED TO BE ON THIS COURSE. I wouldn’t want my daughter to stay on such a course if it was the source of not just stress—that can be overpowered—but depression. My god, and I don’t do depression. Three days and I was done.

For two seconds after I withdrew from classes, I panicked—What did I do? What will people think? Why do I care? I didn’t. Third second in and the relief blanketed me. I looked at a future not ridden with financial strain, tuition payments, apologies to Evelynn for not having time, cancellations on friends due to last minute homework, constant yawning at work and leaving early for class…I was ecstatic for my future. I looked at a mostly open weekend and was elated. It was euphoric—the relief and lightness. I didn’t know how heavy I was until I realized how happy I could be without the burden from one course of action.

I’m not quitting, I’m flying.

Aug1

Confession.

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IMG_9006Lately I’ve been feeling like a shitty mother. & it has everything to do with lack of time.

One of the main reasons it didn’t work with her father was our differing beliefs. Whereas I don’t believe in putting anything before Evelynn, he had gone six weeks without seeing her for one reason or the other. But this past week, I hate how I’ve been feeling like a hypocrite. Between two part-time gigs, I haven’t been able to spend much time with Evelynn. & it’s hitting me hard. Dedicating fifty or sixty hours a week to work has greatly reduced time spent with Evelynn. I didn’t see her for almost 48 hours because of how my shifts were set up. Typically, I have a “rule” of always being home either in the morning or at night everyday, but it didn’t work out that way last week. It was depressing.

My mother is the most stable person in Evelynn’s life. She’s a stay at home mom who can rarely leave the house due to Taylor’s situation. There are times when Evelynn only wants her grandma and it’s painful to watch. I had set an entire day this past week to Evelynn, but instead I spent it in Grand Rapids recovering from the previous night’s escapades. I spent the day close to tears and feeling like a failure. It was the third time this year I had gone out with friends I hadn’t seen in months. I know I deserved a night out and away but it didn’t make me feel better. It still doesn’t. I got home with time to say goodnight to Evelynn and not much else to spare. I begged coworkers to work my morning shift so I could spend it at home with her. They couldn’t. After a long day of both gigs, once again I didn’t make it home until after dinnertime.

What do I keep telling myself? The “creating a life” and “financial stability” excuses don’t work for me. I might spoil the hell out of Evelynn but none of that means anything if I can’t spend time with her. No, it’s the setting an example to chase dreams. It’s the idea that if she were in my same position twenty-five years down the road, she wouldn’t let being a single mom hold her back from accepting work positions and doing well. Because I don’t ever want her to settle, not in anything.

Jul14

Single Mom Hypocrite.

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I am a hypocrite. For I do not date single fathers. Those I have known over the years & those I have met more recently do not give the great single dads a good name. Parenting is not based on DNA. Donating the sperm that lead to the birth does not make one a parent. Even if done unknowingly. It does not automatically give a parent the right. I have listened to men complain of exes having majority custody but then choose to drop the kid(s) off with a relative in order to hit up the bar. Or when with their child(ren), spend it on their phone instead of interacting. Or they nap. It is a turnoff. & I hate this negative view I have against single dads.

When I hear them complain, I question their honesty & wonder if it’s simply a place of rejection or lack of control they are coming from. I have been the pregnant woman alone in bed, curled in a ball, wanting nothing more than to surround my baby with all the love I could give. & then more. Despite being in a relationship at the time, I was very much alone. I lied to friends & family about my happiness of the situation and the relationship when I feared the future and single parenthood. Sympathizing with the guys’ ex is automatic for me & I wish it wasn’t. I know the frustration of being judged on a title, a label. But I am a hypocrite for immediately casting off guys because they own the same title as me, one that I hold very proudly: single parent. Being a single mom is rewarding, knowing I don’t need a guy to make it.

But it can also be lonely.

Lonely by no means translates to desperate. As if I wasn’t already shallow before I became a parent, I’m definitely not willing to settle now. & that makes dating a questionable event. Most days, I’m convinced if Dante was a woman it would have been included as a circle of hell. The last minute rejections & cancellations get old & are bullets to a penetrable ego. I stopped planning for a babysitter months ago–pathetic, I’m well aware. The frustration & judgment from guys who don’t like Evelynn’s father being involved in her life & seeing her regularly is appalling. I may not be a fan of his, but I am a fan of her. Some days, I wonder if it’s even worth it. Then there are nights where I could kick myself in the ass for not being settled in a career with great insurance because I don’t need a man to have more kids other than the sperm necessary to reproduce. I entirely realize that may make me crazy, but I love being a mom. More than anything. That’s not feminism speaking—not needing a man by my side—it’s reality. Being a mom is what makes me happy. It’s not a hobby, it’s a lifestyle. & this is what separates parents everywhere: parenting as a hobby versus parenting as a lifestyle.

Every choice I make involves Evelynn. The job I choose, the route I drive, the money I save, the products I buy, the goals I set. I’m stuck at home living with my parents because my child can’t live in the city—she’s that allergic to chlorine—& to purchase or rent in the country is not affordable for me at the moment. I don’t take vacations because I’m not willing to walk away from my daughter for such. Not at this time. The first thing I’ve done for me in the past two years was join a co-ed soccer league I play in once a week out in Grand Rapids—across the state—but even then, I haven’t been making it to every game. The guilt of leaving my kid after working a morning shift or closing the previous night is a little overwhelming. I can count on one hand the number of friends—close, not acquaintance—I consider myself to have. I’m not willing to go out to the bar or sporting events multiple times in the week because I prefer to spend my time off with my daughter and any extra money spoiling the hell out of her. People assume I’m tight lipped and unsociable—I am—because I don’t take the time to make new friends, the effort to hang out. It’s single parenting 101: my kid has first dibs on my free time.

May14

Cheers to Stubbornhood.

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I like to believe I come from a long line of strong females. Independent, fierce, and inevitably stubborn—stop thinking that’s a bad thing. My mother radiates all of these qualities, and for Taylor’s sake, she doesn’t have a choice. In a room full of doctors and nurses strongly suggesting to follow a certain path of care, she will stick to her guns and order them to do as her gut tells her. Oddly enough, it is when she doesn’t follow her gut that trouble arises and Taylor declines. Those nurses at the University of Michigan who have previously cared for Taylor, know the routine and respect her wishes, while those who are new will be forewarned before entering into the room. With 40-some medications on his allergy list, many of the nurses will double check with her before administering the drug. On multiple occasions, the pharmacy has disbursed the wrong medication, or one containing dyes (he’s strongly allergic to all dyes), and the nurse will have to return for the proper drug. My mother doesn’t sleep on these overnight trips to the hospital, living off the makeshift bed in the room and once spending over three months in the hospital. When Taylor is admitted, she doesn’t leave. But it’s not like she gets any better sleep at home.

With routine meds taken every three to four hours, along with the constant disruption from getting up to suction out Taylor’s lungs, its no wonder the only full night’s sleep she gets is on vacation. Her last vacation was a few days trip to Boston. Three nights of freedom from being woken up to a dozen times in the night. Three nights out of 365. And you thought the newborn baby routine is difficult. Naps are out of the question. Fed through a g-tube with the use of a food pump, twice a day, the machine likes to disrupt any peace by beeping and demanding to be reset. And let’s not forget them seizures, the sucking of the lungs, the repositioning in bed…

My mother is a real-life zombie.

Or so you would expect her to be. Surprisingly, she’s not most days. Lord knows I would be. Nineteen years of no good sleep, I’d be begging for eternal sleep at that rate. That’s a torture technique: waking up the victim just as they fall asleep or just after negatively impacts the mind. It harms the senses and blurs reality. Imagine: tortured in your own home by a lifestyle you wouldn’t dare change because the only other option is to neglect your child. Makes you feel a little bit better about that once a week, maybe, 4:00 A.M. wakeup call after only three hours of sleep I bet.

I grew up living with my grandmother during childhood. For years, as the head ER nurse, she worked long, strenuous hours to provide for her family. Now, retired, she resides on a farm doing the work she once did as a child. She’s a working machine who, like her daughter, doesn’t know rest. Yet, somehow, I always mistake her age because lord knows she still looks to be only in her sixties to me. She’s not, definitely not. I’m blessed with good genes in the family, thank you.

Evelynn wasn’t an expected pregnancy. She took me by quite the surprise. I’m not the most nurturing person on the planet. While I often babysat during my teenage years, I don’t handle tears well and I run from discussions regarding….feelings. That’s never been my strong suit for conversation topics. But I was excited to be a mom. Scared, most definitely. But I was full of excitement that bubbled energetically beneath my skin. It amazed me people couldn’t tell, how they would ask me if I was okay with it rather than congratulate me. Or worse, ask me if I was keeping it, as if they didn’t expect me to want her. (Scroll down the blog to a few posts before for my thoughts on abortion and why I’m pro-choice.) I’ll admit, I’m one to rarely show excitement over anything; even a trip to Florida won’t have me squealing in glee like a twelve-year-old girl at a One Direction concert.

It’s not a secret that I moved in with my parents during my pregnancy, mostly because I was jobless shortly after the first trimester ended and then increasingly because the pregnancy proved to be a difficult one. However, many people wrongly assume that because I live with my parents, and am juggling work and school, that I don’t provide for primary care. It’s like any other family situation, but as a single parent, I’m extremely lucky to have parents, a stay-at-home mom, who is more than willing and happy to provide for free daycare. And why wouldn’t I want Evelynn to be watched by her own family instead of paying a facility when I’m against daycare?

People often talk behind backs and closed doors. I’d like to use the human nature excuse but we all know its not human decency. When I broke it off with Evelynn’s father, I was the target for judgment. But nobody was willing to ask why or if I was okay with it then. I was relieved and thrilled, and for that I am labeled the selfish bitch. I’ll shoulder it and continue to, because it was best, for me and for my daughter. I set out to set an example of never settling, in career, in love, in life. And I intend to do that. I’m already doing that. And with great female role models growing up, I’m not worried about doing wrong.

My daughter eats healthier than most adults I know—for that I’ve been told I’m not letting her be a child. If I don’t comment on the preservatives and dyes and artificials you feed your child, please refrain from the healthy nature I’m instilling in my child. Besides, she likes and eats the food I give her. I changed her pediatrician because we got in arguments over Evelynn’s water consumption—they wanted me to cut back in order for her to eat more while I wasn’t willing to do so when she looked fine, they were more concerned with the numbers on a scale and how she matched up with other babies her age. News flash: she was born small and society’s average baby build is consistently getting bigger. I only breastfed for a few months—my milk supply diminished on its own. I shouldn’t have to defend myself on this topic yet people always asked, “Are you breastfeeding?” and followed it with, “Well, you should try to hold out at least a year.” I’ve no comment. No response on this would be deemed “acceptably nice.” The best is when I’m told I need to date for a father figure in Evelynn’s life. She sees her dad once a week most weeks, and she has her papa for a male role model. Thank you. Besides, haven’t you heard? I’m supermom.

Here’s to the two women who have repeatedly proved stubborn is one of the best traits a mom can be. Go ahead and call me stubborn, I’ll gladly take it as a compliment.