Yes. Yes, I have felt this way before. (image from anxiety.net
Oh. My. God. OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD!
My hands were shaking and my heart bulging from every artery when I saw what was on the screen. A picture of me. Well, half of me. From the waist down. Pants around my ankles. Sitting on the toilet. On Instagram.
Did it post? Did it post? I didn’t know. My phone was frozen. I clicked, nothing would work. I was unable to delete, rewind, go back. My life was ruined. Ruined.
“I take your picture Mommy! Yaaaaay! I did it! Yaaaay! You like it?” My round-faced toddler hovered at my feet, right near where my pants were not yet pulled up. “I take your picture Mommy! I did it! See?”
I had to move to Mexico. I have to delete the Internet. All …
I came across an article on Relevant today (Stop Instramming Your Perfect Life), and while I agree with its premise, it made me pause and think about my own online life.
For many of us, walking away from the Internet isn’t an option. But using it to connect instead of compare is an option, and a life-changing one. Using technology to build community instead of building carefully-curated images of ourselves is an option, and a worthwhile one.
Am I one of those moms who’s putting up a fake front of perfect-looking Instagram shots and Miss Sunny Sunshine status updates? Sometimes, I am. But it’s not because I’m afraid to show my real life. It’s not because I want others to think I’m perfect, or that just-real-enough perfection that is Jennifer Lawrence’s Oscar interview. I take …
A grainy cell phone picture captured a piece of this memory.
My ears throb. My throat aches. My head swims. A sinus and ear infection has rendered momma weak. I flop onto the couch. Dressed in a t-shirt, my husband’s mesh shorts, and an oversize lavender fleece robe, I am a picture of motherly frump. I feel tired. And while my sweet husband cooks a hearty breakfast and brings me a hot cup of coffee (fixed just how I like it), I can’t help but pout a little. I have so much to get done this weekend. Laundry, oh, the laundry. And mopping and scrubbing and well, more laundry. And there are fun things, too, like a friend’s bachelorette party.
But right now, I just sit. Head leaned back into our soft, paisley-pattern couch, legs relaxed, arms …
Seeing the ends of her golden hair gathered into a lavender ponytail holder, I had to choke back emotion. “It’s just hair, honey,” I assured her. “It will grow back.” My preschooler has been begging me to let her get her hair cut “just like mommy’s,” but I’ve been dragging my feet. Why? Well, I was worried she might change her mind. Or, more likely, that I would regret snipping off those sweet tendrils that used to brush up against my cheek when I was rocking her to sleep as a baby. These were her first curls, which had now grown into an unmanageable mane. Her hair had grown down to her shoulder blades, and she didn’t have the patience or desire to keep it maintained. Every morning was a struggle.
“Don’t brush my hair! No! It HURTS! Leave …
Bears and toddlers may exhibit a “grimace” before attacking. Proceed with caution.
They can look cute and cuddly from a distance. Bumbling around, frolicking in the wilderness, foraging for a tasty snack of juicy berries. But then, something sets them off. They feel threatened and are unable to communicate like an adult human. Suddenly, often without warning, they attack. Growling, snarling, sometimes biting. You’ve been warned.
Bear or toddler? Take your pick.
Once my “perfect” baby, my toddler’s behavior lately could be described “like a bear.” And today, she proved that analogy true. Determined to get a snack out of the “baby proofed” cabinet, she gripped the plastic sliding lock with her mighty toddler claw, and broke it. Just snapped it in two. And before my husband could stop her, she started ripping into a box of cereal. …
Easier said than done. But it must be done.
The last thing on my mind this morning was gratitude. In fact, the first thing on my mind was a string of curse words. While I didn’t let them escape my lips, I felt that if an innocent bystander were to view my body language, they would probably be offended. I was stressed. Angry. Irritated. I slammed doors. I barked commands at my daughters. We had to get out the door NOW! We were going to be late for the doctor! Shoes ON! Coats ON! I was frustrated with the situation, not with them. We’re going on week number three of illness in my house, and the pressures of care taking are starting to wear on me. Little sleep. Constant demands for attention. To-do lists with little actually done. …