Don't Make Me a Liar

Please don't ask me how I'm doing.  I will lie to you.  Because I can't tell you...
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I can't tell you that I'm in the most pain I have ever experienced, and have yet to feel a single contraction.

I can't tell you how my hands swell and ache, making the simplest daily tasks painful and frustrating. Or that I haven't had feeling in my right middle finger in weeks, as much as I've wanted to use it. Because that's a dumb thing to complain about. 

I can't tell you that every step I take is excruciating.  That each movement of my body causes a stabbing pain in my pelvis that takes my breath away.  It's just not something you talk about.

I can't tell you how angry it makes me every time (several times a night) I wake myself up at night screaming in pain, only to find that my husband hasn't even flinched.  Because then you would know that I'm a terrible, selfish wife.

While we're on the topic, I can't tell you how lonely it feels to be up in the  middle of the night while I listen to his snoring in the next room.  This awful, ungrateful, self-serving spouse wants nothing more than to shake him awake and make him be miserable and exhausted with me.

In fact, I can't tell you how horrid I feel as I sit at home alone with my chubby feet propped up while my husband is out with friends and want nothing more than for him to feel guilty about it.  What kind of monster would do that?  Surely I must not love him.

I can't tell you that I've pooped myself twice just this week!  Although, how hilarious would your face be? "How are you doing, Ami?" "Oh, you know. I pooped myself this morning!" Because, ew.

I can't tell you how stupid I feel when I knock something over at the store and a pre-teen girl casually comes by and sets it back up, telling me how cute I am.  I know that in my case, "cute" means clumsy and awkward.  The only thing that makes my condition cute is the expected outcome of this process. That's just me being prideful.

I can't tell you how non-comforting it is for you to tell me how many women would love to be in my shoes.  I would love to be in my shoes.

Actually, I can't tell you that I have frequently cried over my fabulous shoe collection -- which I happen to be aware I may never fit into again.  (Even if I could tell you, I wouldn't because you would feed me some lie about how my body will go back to normal.  Come on, we're all adults here. Just because I kept that stack of Silver jeans doesn't mean I actually expect to wear them again.) How shallow would that make me sound?

I can't tell you what a horrible mother I already am.  That I feel some actual resentment for the writhing creature inside me that has already seemingly taken so much from me.  Dignity. Self-esteem. Sleep. My ankles. My beautiful shoes. 

There are so many things I can't tell you.

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Listen.  I knew this would be hard. I've waited a long time to get here. I know that most of this is temporary.  But pretty please, in the meantime... Don't ask how I'm doing. Don't ask if I need anything.  Don't ask if I ate ice cream for dinner.

I will lie to you.

Motherhood: Conquering My Greatest Fear

My biggest fear in life (besides spider rain -- don't get me started) has always been not mattering or being unimportant.

In high school, my mind equated being important with being popular, which was unfortunately incompatible with my severe anxiety disorder.  The combination of trying-too-hard and incredible insecurity ironically resulted in being completely unlikable -- even to most of my closest friends.

When I started college, I developed a coping mechanism for the insecurity called rudeness, which luckily morphed into clever snark and eventually (more recently) into something resembling witty charm.

Somewhere along the line, I believe I did achieve a level of popularity.  For a good long while I was proudly known for my funny social media posts, pretty eyes and great calves.  Still, this exhausting need to feel important remained.

One might think that marriage would fulfill this goal.  My sweet husband,however, due to his inability to say things just because they sound nice, has made it clear on more than one occasion that, while he would be a little sad for bit, he would be perfectly fine without me. (Always good for the anxious mind to hear things like that.) 

Tonight I had the realization that right at this moment, when I feel farther from my friends than I ever have, with my once-fabulous calves in a constant state of puffiness and my blue eyes red and droopy from constant irrational crying and lack of sleep... I matter more than I ever have.  To the tiny human growing inside me, there is no person on the planet more important.  I literally mean the world to him.

In a few short months, I will have the opportunity to give even more of myself and matter to another person as much as my own mother, who has been my best friend and support throughout my awkward, messy, anxiety-ridden life, matters to me. (Hint: That's a whole lot.)

Happy Mother's Day.

Redefining.

Being married is hard.

No, not because my husband has weird habits (which he does) or because there is no end to the laundry (which there isn't. I haven't seen the love seat in months.) Not even because entire boxes of cereal disappear seemingly overnight.

It's hard because in becoming an us I feel I've lost a lot of my me.

I know what you're thinking. That's super dramatic and extremely selfish and I must not understand what marriage is all about.  Before you throw anything, hear me out.

A few years ago, the most common descriptors I would hear in reference to myself would probably have been cute, athletic and funny. I can definitely say that "cute" is becoming more and more of a relative term. (In what level of hell does one have to fight wrinkles and acne at the same time?!) I don't want to get into the weight gain, but let's just acknowledge that it's a thing. The compliments I became so used to brushing off are much fewer and farther between... and often from inappropriate sources if they come at all.

Not helpful? Still winding up with that rotten tomato? Stick with me.

This evening I picked up a basketball for the first time in almost a year.  To some of you, that may not seem like a big deal.  For those who know me best, you may understand why it triggered a severe emotional breakdown. (One of many as of late.) It occurred to me that as a married woman (although this may have come with age anyway) it isn't likely I will be presented with an opportunity to play a good game of basketball. Possibly ever again. Sure, I can shoot around... but a good, competitive pick-up game? Not likely. I imagine this is what Thor would feel like if you took away his hammer for a while, then gave it back, but told him he could only use it to hang photos on the wall.

I know. Drama again. But competitive athletics is something that has always been important to me and brought me actual joy and self worth. The most competition I've had lately is trying to squeeze my new non-athletic hips into my jeans, though I've developed some good moves.  Anyway, I'm truly not sure how to deal with this particular loss.  (The first person to suggest co-ed softball gets unfriended. But seriously. By definition, it's a consolation sport.) I can't change the fact that I will always prefer a good cardiovascular pick-up game over an hour on the elliptical or whatever lame workout video is trending. My usual "this too shall pass" mantra does not apply. This struggle is real...and seems it's here to stay.

Don't worry. At least we all know I'm still funny.  I'd be lying if I didn't acknowledge that my quick wit has been affected over time.  Possibly from years of diet soda consumption, or those concussions I sustained a while back. (At least that won't be a problem with my new sedentary lifestyle!)

So I guess my new challenge is... How do I learn to live with 33% of what I've always liked most about myself? How do I change what makes me happy and feel worthwhile? How can I stay emotionally healthy when I don't feel like a winner? And how do I keep all of these feelings from affecting my relationship?

Okay. There it is. While this does not describe the full extent of "Who am I now?" that I've been feeling, it gives you an idea. Oh you thought I was venting? No. I actually want your feedback. Text, email, whatever. (Spare me the fluffy "you're still beautiful" stuff.  Let's keep it constructive.)

Please help me fix me so I can be a better part of us. 

Elevation

This morning I read a quote on a friend's Facebook wall that stated:

Life is like an Elevator.

Sometimes, on your way up,

you have to stop and 

let some people off. 

While it may be true that there are individuals and relationships we have to let go of in order to grow, I would argue that my life's elevation has been more greatly impacted by the people I have let on than those I've let off along the way. 

Growing up with social anxiety, I was content to hit the "close doors" button (frantically) at each stop rather than let anyone step on.  I've learned, however, that that is essentially the equivalent of stopping the elevator altogether.  Any progress I have made and all I hope to achieve could not and will not be possible on my own.  The family, friends, coworkers and strangers who support and inspire me daily have lifted me to where I am.  Even those who have hurt me the most deeply have somehow directed me into the arms of those who now love me the most.  I'm grateful for every person who has boarded my life's elevator, however briefly.  In a way, I will carry them all with me to the top. 

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"Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival." - C.S. Lewis

Crowding the Stable

Last Christmas, my parents gave each of their children a small Nativity set complete with a little stable my dad built from the old cabinets they'd ripped out of the kitchen.  I noticed while I was at my sister's house that every figure in their Nativity was crammed into the tiny stable. 

I had my own set on a table by the front door of my house.  Just before I left town for the holiday, my sister's family dropped by with a few gifts they wanted to me to take with me.  It didn't take long for my nephew Seth to see my Nativity and promptly proceed to crowd the figures together inside. 

When I began to explain that there wasn't enough room inside the stable, showing him how it should look and pulling the pieces out to give each their proper space (I'm all about personal bubbles), he threw his arms up and with frustrated tears shouted, "Stop! There'th enough room! They can't thee the baby from outthide! They need to thee the baby!!"

The other day I caught a glimpse of my sister's Nativity, again with the figures tucked snugly inside, each with a clear view of the wooden baby. 

Christmas is always an oddly sad time for me.  I usually blame it on the magic that's lost as we grow up, the faces I love but rarely see any other time of year, the gifts I wish I could afford to give.  This year, through the words of a five year old, I'm reminded that through the twinkly lights that remind me of childhood, the reunions I wish wouldn't have to end and the annual painful search for the right gift for my dad (why doesn't anyone make soap-on-a-rope anymore?), to make sure that I can see the baby. There is always enough room, and that is where the real magic lies. 

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"It seems, then," said Tirian, smiling himself, "that the Stable seen from within and the Stable seen from without are two different places."

"Yes," said the Lord Diggory. "Its inside is bigger than its outside."

"Yes," said Queen Lucy. "In our world too, a Stable once had something inside it that was bigger than our whole world."

- CS Lewis' "The Last Battle"

The Very Worst Winners

The Phoenix Suns have the very worst fans. Many of you reading this will be offended by that, but let me explain...

See, this is actually a bucket list post about how I finally made it to an Oklahoma City Thunder game. (Two actually, although the first was a preseason game in which Durant, Westbrook, Ibaka and Collison sat out.) In my years as an Arizona resident, I have been to many Suns games. I have, however, only witnessed them winning two. Both were against the Oklahoma City Thunder. (Let me remind you that the first was the game in which none of OKC's starters played.)

The second was one of the most incredible games I've ever seen. Normally I would be upset to see my team lose, but in this case, my team had played beautifully. Durant kept his 25 point per game streak alive and everyone else was on point. What we witnessed that night was Gerald Green having the best game of his career (so far... let's hope he hasn't peaked just yet) hitting 3-pointer after 3-pointer for an amazing 41 points total.

Close game. We lost. Couldn't find it in me to be upset after the magic I'd just seen.

Completely prepared to head home and write a raving review of the Suns' performance, I instead came home to multiple rude Facebook wall posts about how my team choked (when really both teams played phenomenally) and how the Suns trashed us.  (6 points does not constitute trashing. By definition, I believe a trashing requires at least a 20 point lead.)  It was interesting, since when the Suns lose, everyone likes to act like it's no big deal. It's when they win that things get ugly.

The only conclusion I could make was that fans of the Phoenix Suns, while great at refraining from being sore losers (with the exception of the grudge they like to hold against the Spurs), are horrible winners. Good thing that doesn't happen too often. (Ooohhh... burn!)

Just kidding.  I fully believe they will be formidable in a few seasons.

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"Attend an Oklahoma City Thunder game" has been replaced with "Publish a book" on the Everlasting Bucket List.

Like a (Falling) Rock Star

Several weeks ago, I finally had an opportunity to join some friends at a rock gym.  Of course I woke that morning with a slight fever. (Nothing a few caffeinated painkillers couldn't handle...)

I shelled out the cash, harnessed up (after watched the mandatory safety video), and hit the rocks. I'm going to go ahead and say I killed it. With an exception...

You see, the second wall I tried had a monstrous ledge two-thirds of the way up.  It seemed easy enough. Especially watching each of my friends do it without a problem.  I had a problem.  I couldn't see past the ledge when I got up to it enough to plan a successful move beyond it.  I fell. More than once.

I did successfully scale many others with different challenges and obstacles with little trouble.  After four failed attempts, I was done with the wall.  A friend that was with me tried to get me to try again, insisting I wouldn't be happy until I mastered it.  Knowing how competitive I can be, normally I would agree with her. But as I dangled from my butt harness, one of my favorite songs (All the Right Moves by OneRepublic) came to mind:

Let's paint the picture of the perfect place.

They got it better than what anyone's told you.

They'll be the king of hearts and you're the queen of spades

And we'll fight for you like we were your soldiers.

I know we got it good, but they got it made

And the grass is getting greener each day.

I know things are looking up, but soon they'll take us down

Before anybody's knowing our name.

They got, All the right friends in all the right places

So yeah, we're going down, they got

All the right moves and all the right faces

So yeah, we're going down

As much as I love to win, there's a certain beauty in admitting defeat.  There was nothing in me that felt the need to get to the top of that wall.  To this day, I have no regrets about quitting.  

I still feel like a rock star.

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"Go Rock Climbing" has been replaced on the Everlasting Bucket List by "See a Linkin Park concert."