New Year, Same Me

 

 

New Year, New Me!

Except...not at all. We’ve turned to a new calendar page and I am very, very much the same me. I struggled hard with resolutions this time around- not with keeping them (haven’t even gotten the CHANCE to fail yet!)- but with setting them at all. I just want so much...so much growth, improvement, change, progress, accomplishment, that I didn’t even know where to start with overhauling myself. I felt immense pressure to have a life-changing word to focus on, to commit to fixing all of my flaws, or (AND) to finally find a way to feel like I’m doing things right. I just want to do all the things right.

This need to be better was overwhelming me. Especially following a year largely spent just literally trying to survive. Be better?! I’m already doing my absolute best. 

So, I paused. And I looked at my reflection with eyes full of grace, threw out all the expectations, gave myself a giant self-care self-hug and committed to loving myself extravagantly, just as I am, because that’s what I deserve.  

Nope. 

 

I did not do that. 

I languished in the messy middle- caught between ambition and guilt. Wanting to do all the things, and also wanting to just...nap for a while and wake up to a revised, slightly easier existence. I mentally jotted down a few new goals/rules, became instantly frustrated that my nearly imperceptible behavior changes aren't immediately translating to seismic life shifts, and berated myself for all the ways I’m already and always falling short. 

I am immensely hard on myself. I know this. But changing that would mean a whole new me, and as I’ve said...that’s just not happening right now. So perhaps I’ll take baby steps towards improvement by way of easing up on my quest for improvement. (The irony...) 

 

First up in this new journey through sameness- giving you the pep talk I really need to hear:

HEY YOU. Yes, you. You...are good. Just as you are. You don’t have to be new, or better. ESPECIALLY right now. You are more than the worst parts of you. But you’re also more than the best parts of you. You are worthy of love and happiness and a freaking break even IF...even WHEN...you still can’t manage to wake up early (or on time), you haven’t lost the last 5 (ok 15) pounds, or you are facing a photo album deficit you’ll never be able to Shutterfly your way out of. Whatever the thing is (or the multitude of things are) telling you you’re a failure- it's lying. You may be a night owl who’s a little round in the middle with a sad lack of baby books compared to your abundance of children (yes- this talk is starting to get oddly specific)...but THAT IS OK. It’s not all you are. It’s not all you’ll ever be. Because even if those things never get transformed (via magical January willpower or any other means)- THERE IS MORE TO YOU. And it is lovely and complex and flawed and quite possibly very similar to the you of last year in a lot of magnificent ways. 

 

If the world gets one more year of YOU? It should rejoice (and I promise you, so many people really are giddy about the same old you- even if they're maybe just a bit too distracted by their own neglected treadmills, cast-off hobbies and angry outbursts to make it fully known.)

So get better! Maybe! A little! Where you can, how you can, when you can! (Because frankly, Netflix doesn't need your undying devotion, and swapping a soda out for a water every now and again might be an experiment worth trying). But also: be the same! Because the unique goodness that is inherently yours needs not a single tweak. 

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Annnnnnnnd abrupt cut back to me. In the now. The girl who's not exactly feeling all mushy gushy with self-acceptance, but also doesn't have the energy to Make This My Year! I want to believe my own words and follow my own advice and love my own self. And I do, or I am, or I will...or something. I don't know where I stand with my goals or my word and I sure don't know what this year will hold for me or turn me into. 2020 was a year of a loooooooooot of sameness, and yet I don't know anyone who wouldn't describe it as transformative. So maybe there is a New Me on the horizon. Maybe I will win my battle against screen-time addiction or find a new level of parenting patience or remember to switch the laundry the same day I wash it. Or maybe it will be more of the same- viewed and valued with a bit of a new perspective. It's a new year...anything is possible.

 

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A Change is Gonna Come

"What's the point?"

I’ve been struggling a lot lately with that feeling in regards to politics. We are SO divided as a nation, with people DEEPLY entrenched in their views on either side. There is a lot of talking (actually- yelling) little listening, and seemingly no budging. So what’s the point? Why bother debating, correcting, convincing, educating, campaigning, protesting...flag-flying, sign-posting, petition-signing, IG story-sharing, or truth-seeking if everyone is already set in their beliefs/decisions/party lines?

What’s the point in discussing all of this with my Trump-supporting friends or family if they’re not going to change? Is it worth it? To risk awkwardness, or hurt, or even a severed relationship when no change in opinion is likely to come anyway? What’s the point in even voting if my vote is just going to get cancelled out by my MAGA hat wearing neighbor, my ultra-conservative cousin, or outnumbered by groups I’m technically a part of but shockingly unaligned with (hey there: evangelical Christians and suburban white women!)?

How much do I want to “make this a thing”? How much does it matter? How much should I speak up? How much should I risk? How much do I think I can change? 

I honestly don’t know. But a quote I saw recently might hold part of the answer. “I don’t do this to change the country. I do this so the country won’t change me.” 

So when the controversies flare up, the alliances dig in deeper, the dividing lines are put on display...I may not change her mind, or his mind, or your mind...but I can fight to be unchanged by a world I don’t agree with. And that is HARD. It’s COMPLICATED. It's a flip-your-brain-inside-out kind of struggle, dealing with the cognitive dissonance of it all, trying to understand what's true, what matters, how does it fit, what does it mean, what should I do, who am I, and who do I want to be...

 

Who I am (in my very core, at my very best) is a Jesus-following, family-loving, friend-supporting, people-championing, everyone-accepting person. I won’t give any of that up for any candidate, policy or party. But I also absolutely won’t compromise any of that by supporting, condoning, or ignoring systems, rhetoric, or people who promote hate.

 

And that all sounds just fine and good, and fairly politically-agnostic. Because in the end, we're all just good people trying to do good things, right? 

 

Well...let me say this as clearly as I‘m able to now, at the risk of offending, or being misunderstood, or accused of hypocrisy...

I do not support President Trump. I will not vote for him. And I have some serious concerns and questions about people who do and will. Yes- even people I wholeheartedly love. Actually, ESPECIALLY those people. I want to love unconditionally, I want to fully trust that relationships are bigger than politics, and know that everyday actions mean more than one box we check every four years. But I also deeply struggle with understanding how a leader of such profoundly and obviously flawed character could be endorsed by anyone who professes to value the same things I do. 

And let me also say:

I will love you no matter who you vote for. But please don't make me prove it! (Kidding. Kind of!)

 

I'll say it again because I need to repeat it confidently as I simultaneously start the hard work of meaning it: I will love you no matter who you vote for.

 

But I ask you to consider what your vote demonstrates to those around you. What does it say to your daughters? What does it say to your Black friends? Your gay coworker? Your classmate with a disability? Your immigrant neighbor? (OH how this list could go on...) What does it say you care about? And who does it say you DON’T care about?

 

And here- let me be explicit: If you vote for Trump, can you look at my kids...my white, Black, male and female children of yet-to-be-determined ability, status or sexual orientation...and proudly tell them who you voted for? Knowing all that you know. Witnessing all that you've seen and heard. Can you tell them what your vote means? What your yard sign is about? Who and what exactly you are putting your social, emotional, and monetary trust and support behind? Can you rationalize enough? Explain enough? Overlook enough? Cost-benefit analyze enough? Will any amount of party-loyalty or tax break incentives be enough to back that choice?

I am a broken, flawed, mess in progress, now, this November and always. I will change in innumerable ways between now and this November and the end of my life. My circumstances, my opinions, my approach (and my hairstyle!) could all be radically different over time as I pursue continual growth. I’m not afraid of that change. I’m not ashamed of progress that reveals contradictions. I will not confuse healthy conviction to core ideals with a stubborn grasp on temporal things. I will be changed in many ways, but I will be vigilant in what things I allow to change me. 

I will hold fast to the example Jesus set, and my responsibility to do what’s right.

I will pray for the bravery to speak up for others, stand up to harm, and risk my own comfort for broader gain.

I will vote for Joe Biden.

And I will hope for the very, very best kind of change for us all.

 

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Love Anyway

"Enjoy every minute!"
"Soak it all up!" 
"It goes so fast!"
"Treasure this time!"
"You'll miss this someday!"

These are all things I've heard, thought, felt, (but thankfully have never said) in regards to motherhood.

I can't stand these statements...but...I also understand the heart behind them. The moms (ok, probably the grandmas) who share this advice intend to encourage us younger mamas. They are trying to share their hard-earned wisdom and perspective, and remind us that life- the wild, crazy, sticky, stinky life we've found ourselves in- is all just a wisp. In the trenches of parenthood (or the thick of a meltdown) things can feel hopelessly bleak, and gut-wrenchingly hard. Bedtime sagas appear never ending, power struggles seem insurmountable. The trials of now seem like they may just go on forever. But these well-meaning women looking at the chaos of those behind them in life (and also the grocery store line) with a disarming mix of a sideways glance, and a twinkle in their eye...they don't mean to guilt, or pressure, or judge. (Well, at least I don't think they do. Most of them...) They mean to lift us out of our myopic reality, refreshing us on the bigger picture, beyond what we can currently see.

But it doesn't always feel like that, does it?

Not to me, that's for sure. When I am having a day with my threenager, or the baby kept me up all night, or my big-kid is serving up some sass I didn't know she had in her, I don't want to be told to ENJOY EVERY MINUTE. That feels impossible, and honestly, downright disrespectful. Enjoy those minutes? Not likely. Enjoy EVERY minute? HA, no.

We all know...we know deep down that our kids are going to grow up faster than we ever thought possible. And as much as we hate to admit it, we'll soon find ourselves standing solo in a checkout line enamored with the unruly cart-climbing brood behind us, and we'll pine for those days. Those days when our clothes were covered in a near proprietary mix of milk stains, stickers, and goldfish cracker dust. Those days when chubby little "rubber band wrists" reached out for us for their every earthly need. Those days when we heard Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama, MAHHHHHMMMM! so often and so loud it made our ears ring.

But when we're in those days? We're not pining for much more than the clock to strike bedtime o'clock. We're not interested in soaking up anything other than a bathtime for one (with the door locked, thank you). The idea of enjoying every single blessed minute...of...all of this? It's just. too. much.

So then what do we do?
Do we roll our eyes at these cliches? Begrudgingly accept the platitudes with an insincere nod? Silently seethe from the pain of feeling misunderstood? Internally promise we'll never be that lady doling out unsolicited advice and whitewashing the trials of our own past?

Well...maybe a little bit. Sometimes.
(Eye-rolling is a natural trait- bordering on gift- of mine so that tendency is hard to squash.)

But what I want to challenge myself to do (and mayyyyybe you too, because bossing is also one of my gifts) is to embrace the kind intentions and the spirit of the sentiments. To see the value in what they're saying, even if it's dang hard to actually do.

Because truly, I don't think we're supposed to enjoy every minute. Of motherhood, or grocery shop small talk or...anything. That's unrealistic. But I also don't think we're supposed to wallow in the struggle, excusing ourselves of the call to do more than just survive these (sometimes tough, often monotonous) days.

What I think we're supposed to do is: Love... anyway.

Love it. Love them. Love ourselves...anyway.

When it's hard. When they're annoying. When I'm tired...
When it's hopeless. When they're wrong. When I'm undeserving...
When this, when that. Even if, even though...
Love anyway.

Love despite all the reasons I don't want to. Love people who haven't earned it. Love in situations I don't understand. Love even before I think I actually can. Love long after I think I can continue.

I don't know why this version of the same bigger truth is easier for me to swallow. Am I any more capable of loving (all things and all people at all times) than I am of enjoying every moment? No way! I'm an imperfect mess whose ability to judge comes much more swiftly than my capacity to care. I'm critical of things, impatient with others and unforgiving of myself.

But for some reason, the idea of "love anyway" doesn't feel guilt-ridden. It doesn't seem like an unrealistic hurdle to (repeatedly) clear, or a utopian mindset that I have to will myself into feeling (or faking).
 
Love anyway is a statement with tension.

Love is the very best of the best. It's pure and transcendent and wonderful. Love is everything I want to be and feel, but beyond that it's a verb. To love is our calling.

Anyway is acknowledgement of context. It's recognition that love doesn't always feel possible. It's honesty that some stuff is really and truly, awfully hard. It's the "yes and" that pairs "I don't wanna" with "just do it". It's real-talk that hears and sees reality, but doesn't enable excuses.

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This loving anyway stuff can get really heavy. It means we are to give grace to the least of these (and accept grace when we are the least of these). But it's also an invitation to lightness; an opportunity to smile not because we're ignoring or unaware of the pain but because we think it's worth it to smile anyway.

It's big love in big anyways (Supporting a friend even when I have no clue if I'm doing it right...and actually I am pretty sure I'm not doing it right, but I LOVE her enough to keep showing up imperfectly ANYWAY)

And it's small love in small anyways (Oh, Miller-buddy, you thought it would be fun to dot-stamp-marker your face? I'm going to laugh while we unsuccessfully wipe you down, because I LOVE your silly, disobedient self ANYWAY!)

I'm looking for all of the chances to love, in all of the anyways life throws at me, and I'm surprised that I don't feel pressured...I'm actually finding freedom as I shift my perspective.

I can't enjoy my kids running each other over with the library cart, shrieking and colliding through the supposed-to-be-silent halls. (Just a typical Tuesday!) But I can love them in it. I can love that they are fierce, determined spirits who want to try things for themselves. I can love the chance to bring them to a land where books are plentiful and free. I can love that most of the other daytime patrons are either dealing with similar rowdy mini-companions or are nearly deaf and don't seem to mind.

I can't enjoy squeezing my thighs into jeans whose "super skinny" label feels less like a style and more like an ironic taunt. But I can love my body...anyway. (Oooooh, this one is hard. Maybe right now I can try to love my body anyway...) I can love that my legs enable me to (usually) keep up with my kids' boundless energy. I can love that my belly kept them safe and sound for a collective 36 months, even if it's all a little worse for wear now. I can love that (worth every penny) blonde highlights keep the possibility that my hair is going grey a mystery to even me.

There is a lot in this life that isn't enjoyable. There are times we'd rather speed through than soak up. There are moments we will look back on and emphatically not miss. We're not capable of, or required to treasure it all. But loving anyway? Well that just might the very hardest, and simultaneously most marvelous thing to practice.

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Unexpected

On two separate occasions within the last month, someone has accused me of being pregnant. Not asked if I was pregnant...actually put an assertion out there, seeking immediate and public confirmation. “You’re pregnant!..You must be!...I knew it!” And then, after hearing my denial, they followed up with an even more emphatic, “Yeah right…You’re pregnant.”

 And what did I do to earn this line of “questioning”? I drank a sparkling water at a party when everyone else had wine. That’s it. That’s all it took for my reproductive status to be put on blast. (Well, that, and maaaaaaaybe that I looked a little chubby in my outfit that day but I’m not really interested in entertaining that explanation).

On one hand, I understand the curiosity. I understand that it potentially comes from an excited, eager-to-celebrate kind of place. But on the other hand: no thank you. No thank you to the questions and the pressure and the expectations and the feelings and the justifications that come with a personal question forced on me in a public setting.

Maybe I am pregnant. Maybe I’m not. Maybe I wish I was. Maybe I don’t want to be. Maybe I used to be. Maybe I can’t be.

Maybe I’m doing a cleanse. Maybe I have a drinking problem. Maybe I ate too many tacos. Maybe I’m wearing an unflattering jumpsuit. 

Maybe it’s complicated. Maybe it’s sensitive. Maybe it’s not. But you don’t know. You don’t know how your comment might make me feel. You don’t know how I might hear it based on a thousand other things that you don't know. Slapping a presumption on me...especially in front of others, forcing me to process my thoughts with an audience isn't fair.

Please though...care about me. Take an interest in me. Ask me questions. I'm about as open as they come, and live to dive deep with people. So by all means...

Let's talk about babies, and how they're the most lovely version of impossible.
Let's talk about fertility and infertility, and how we had no idea how nuanced and miraculous and heart-wrenching it all can be.
Let's talk about balance and other such unicorns.
Let's talk about motherhood, and how it breaks your heart a thousand times and puts it back together in a way you didn't know was possible.
Let's talk about self-worth, self-care, and self-love, and how to cultivate them in all of our circumstances.
Let's talk about opposites living inside of a single body and soul; how you can want and not want something at the same exact time; how you can feel anxious and hopeful, terrified and ecstatic, longing and fulfilled.

Let's talk about all of it. Maybe with some sodas, after the party.

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The Quilt that Guilt Built

Last December, as we were decking the halls, I thought to myself- I really want to make a Christmas quilt. But December isn't exactly the best time to attack a craft of that magnitude so I (reluctantly) put that idea in the "someday" pile and moved on my merry way.

Sometime last Summer the thought came back around, and I was so proud of myself for thinking of it early this time, for getting ahead of things! But then...I forgot to actually do anything about it, (it's kind of hard to get in the yuletide spirit when it's more of a tidepool season) so the idea accidentally found its way back to the "someday" pile.

And then...it was November. And this idea suddenly sprang back into my head. I had to have a Christmas quilt. And not someday. THIS day. THIS season. THIS Christmas. I knew that the timing was awful- the last thing we need right now is one more thing to do (or one more mess covering our dining table) but there was no reasoning with me this time around (not even me reasoning with myself). This was the year of the Christmas quilt. No matter how little sense that seemed to make.

So I poked around my Pinterest boards of old ideas, trying to find something magical to make this dream a reality, but I just wasn't finding anything I loved.

But then.
I found it.
The quilt.
My Christmas quilt.

A post shared by Original Modern Quilts (@suzyquilts) on Jul 24, 2017 at 12:59pm PDT

The bayside quilt, by Suzy Quilts.

It was modern. It was beautiful. It abstractly looked like Christmas trees.

The only problem? The pattern wasn't available yet. Suzy was going to release it on Cyber Monday (the day after Thanksgiving weekend), which at the time was still a week away. Making a quilt in time for Christmas was crazy, but I knew it would be impossible if I didn't take advantage of some sewing time over the long holiday weekend. So I took a chance, and sent her a direct message telling her how lovely her quilt was, and how desperately I wanted one of my very own, and asked if mayyyyyyybe, just mayyyyyyybe she'd be willing to let me buy an advanced copy of the pattern?

And she said yes!

And...I cried.
I laid in my bed, read her message back to me and I cried.

I cried because we were going to have a Christmas quilt. Which means we were going to have a Christmas. 

Now, I know I have a flair for the dramatic from time to time...but I think recently at least, I come by it honestly. Because to be real, the last two months have been rough.  Like...really rough. I am so so so very tired. Physically, yes, but also mentally and emotionally and spiritually. I have too many conflicting and complicated feelings about the whole thing to pour it all out right here right now, but the part that matters at this point is that I was just feeling hopeless. And helpless. I couldn't make everything fun. I couldn't make everything good. I couldn't make everything, anything.

But I could make a quilt.

And I thought to myself, that maybe if I made a big enough quilt; a beautiful enough quilt; a cozy enough quilt...maybe I could tuck my whole family underneath it and we'd be ok. Maybe my kids would have a physical representation of how much I adore them. Maybe I'd be forgiven for the impatience, selfishness, and lack of compassion that's pouring out of me in ways that make me ashamed of who I am. Maybe this could be my atonement for getting us all into a giant mess that I can barely see out of.

Maybe I could pour my effort and my emotions into making something beautiful in the midst of the murkiness, and we could have a soft place to land. A safe place to snuggle. A patchwork version of comfort and joy.

And so this quilt became my labor of love, and honestly, my coping mechanism. In foster care, in parenting, in life there is so much that it is out of our control. And I HATE being out of control. There are so many things I just....can't. I needed some things that I can.

Well...I can buy adorable prints. And lay out something inspiring. And measure. And cut. And measure. And cut. And sew. And sew. And sew.

So that's what I did. Every night after bedtime I lugged out my supplies, popped in my headphones, and I worked. I worked on something concrete, and tangible, and lovely. I listened to parenting podcasts, I prayed as I pressed, and I tried to lose myself in something I could feel good at. Something that that make sense. That has a start and a finish. Process, progress, right angles, and complimentary colors. Something that keeps my hands busy, and my mind from wandering into darkness.

I sewed this quilt for the same reasons that I put up Christmas trees in every bedroom, buy too many stocking stuffers at Target, and eat queso blanco on the couch at 10 o'clock:

To compensate and to escape.

I want to eat my feelings, buy my feelings, and craft my feelings.

I want to shower my kids with every good thing I can find, to make up for all the terrible things they've seen and are dealing with. So many of which are beyond my control, but even scarier, so many of which are my fault.

I want to drown myself in every good thing I can find, to distract from the overwhelming fear, failure, guilt, shame, worry, sadness and doubt.

I may not literally self-medicate, but I understand the desire people have to escape the harder parts of life. To throw yourself into whatever seems to work, whatever feels better, whatever is easier than facing another day full of uncertainty and exhaustion.

So my quilt is complicated.
It's something I'm extremely proud of, and also desperately in need of.
I had to make this...while I wonder if we're going to make it.

And now it's complete- edges squared, stray threads snipped off, ready for cuddles, and forts, and messes, and movies, and books, and tears, and....Christmas.

But am I?

Well, I'm not quite ready for Christmas, and I'm no where near complete. My edges are raw, and I've got loose threads everywhere, threatening to unravel at any moment. But now I do have a big fluffy reminder that there are things I am good at, traditions I'm building, and memories that will matter. This quilt isn't the point. It's a byproduct of a much bigger work that is being done in our lives right now...a work that is far from over.

Right now, this quilt is a thing that I did to help me feel centered, and productive, and maybe even just a little bit merry.
Soon it'll be a thing that I use to cover my people in a love I'm not even sure I fully have.
Later it'll be something we bring back out as a reminder of where we've been, and a hope for where we're headed.

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If you're here for the quilt, and got sucked into the dramatics, my apologies. I'm a quilter, yes, but I'm also a sharer, (and an oversharer), so you may come for the fabric but you'll leave with a story.
Here's a bit of the nitty gritty if that's more your thing:

Quilt pattern: Suzy Quilts Bayside. It's so affordable, and so easy to follow. I've never used a quilt pattern before, so this was a fun kind of "reverse" challenge, to not do it all myself this time. I also followed her video tutorials for template cutting, and chain-piecing which helped the process go more smoothly.

I did change things up a bit because I wanted to use more fabrics than the pattern called for, so I ended up having to do a lot more thinking, adjusting, and surprisingly difficult math-ing, to get everything to work. I also insisted upon doing something fun on the back (All of my quilts have had a pieced back of some kind. I just can't bring myself to do one plain backer. It's contrary to my more is more ethos!) so I had to figure that out on the fly as well.

Supplies: 
Fabric: Joann. I didn't want to belabor this prework of it all...I just wanted to GET MOVING, so I took Piper with me to Joann one day and just blitzed through the holiday aisles, grabbing anything that looked like it could work. I eventually narrowed it down to the 8 I loved best that I thought would work together well. I actually rushed the process a little, buying fabric before I had the pattern, so I was taking wild guesses on how much I needed. That proved to be a mistake (duh!) but a fixable one, though it did require spending another hour at the Joann's cutting counter returning some of my pieces, digging up the matching bolts of fabric and re-buying appropriate amounts.

A post shared by Courtney Bowden (@bowdenisms) on Nov 19, 2017 at 6:51pm PST

Batting: Warm and Natural (I hate that brand name so so much. But I love the batting).
Binding: Can you believe I still have more of this striped trim? I'm obsessed with how it looks with this quilt. (And I think I have enough on the spool to do one project...someday!)
Walking foot: After spending farrrrrrr too long doing my first row of quilting I sprung for walking foot and oooooh (feed) doggies it was helpful. (I posted a tale of confusion and woe in my local quilters' guild Facebook group, and they recommended I get one). It's stuff like this that reminds me I have NO clue what I'm doing. I approach quilting a whole lot like I approach life- get in super deep super fast, basically wing it all, learn everything the hard way... Oh, but wait. Now we're wading back into metaphors and melancholy self-reflection. I better sign off and make time for the really good stuff...because this quilt was made to be loved- and I know just the people to do it.

For more quilt love- poke around the blog, or instagram. 

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Field Trip Lessons

On Monday morning, I worked from home. I held some conference calls, sent out a contract, prepped for a client visit, and basically tried to cram a day's worth of work into a couple hours. And in the afternoon, I was a field trip mom. I picked pumpkins, pet animals, patched up a boo-boo and had an all-around blast with my preschooler. 

If you saw me that day, you'd probably think I was killing it at this working mom thing. And maybe that day I actually was. I mean...look at the pictures...she (and we) had a blast, and for bonus adorable points- she did it in her little red boots. 

But one day, and these pictures, aren't the whole story. It's part of it...and a beautiful part...but not the whole. Every day I'm a working mom, but most days it's not split quite so cleanly- I don't get the morning to be one thing and the afternoon to be the other. I'm both...all the time. And with both, comes overlap, comes pressure, comes stress, comes...mess. 

This working parent thing is messy, and only half of the story is visible at any given time. 

If you see me during a meeting, you might think I've got it all together. I've got a full time job and three little kids. I'm busy! I'm important! I'm doing it all! But if you're on my team, you've also witnessed me stroll in, half-disheveled, apologizing for the cluster that is my morning routine (and the dry-shampoo situation that is my hair). So...yeah. Maybe I'm not doing it all.

If you see me with my kids, you may think I have it all. Three adorable little people, plus a career I'm passionate about. I'm working, and making it work! But if you're around enough, you've also seen me arrive home frantic, apologizing about the day getting away from me. You've witnessed me shushing the kids during a conference call, stepping away from dinner to finish one more email, opting for "movie night" because I can't muster the energy for anything more. So...yeah. Maybe I don't have it all.

I rock presentations....and I hold back tears during airport FaceTime conversations with my kids. 

I say yes to every extra hug at daycare drop off...and I arrive late to my 9:30 meeting (again). 

I surprise my kids with an after school trip to the park...and I catch up on email until the midnight hour. 

I succeed, and fail; I am put together and never enough. 
I work incredibly hard at my job, just as I work incredibly hard at raising my kids. And in the end, I am marvelously imperfect at it all.

If you've witnessed me, a working mom, in either capacity, then you have no doubt already seen me screw up, lose my patience, drop the ball, and at times just appear to be an all-around mess. But I hope that you'll stick around long enough to see the other half of the story: the part where I try my absolute hardest to serve well, to perform well, to love well. 

I'm pretty sure that someday, this little girl will look back on things and know that her mom did not have it all together. She'll remember that I sometimes packed the wrong thing for lunch (though she'll learn that when you have a preschooler, pretty much every lunch item can be deemed "wrong" for a variety of specific and maddening reasons). She'll remember that I wasn't always (ever) the first parent at pickup. 

But I really hope that she'll know about the other side. I hope she'll remember the pumpkin patch days. The boots, the hayrides, and the kisses on skinned up knees. I hope she'll know that I worked, and prayed, and tried, and tried some more to be my best, and show her my best; to model some sort of imperfect path of self-fulfillment, humility and fun. I hope she knows that through it all, I never wanted anything more than to somehow demonstrate to her how immeasurably she is loved. 

On Monday I worked and I mom-ed. And it was a very good day. 

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What a trip

They say there's no such thing as a vacation with kids. Well, do you know who they are? Me. I am they. And hear me say to you: there's no such thing as a vacation with kids. 

We just got back from 4 days in Philly, and while I would call it many things (a trip, a visit, a whirlwind adventure!) a "vacation" would not be one of them. Because though it was actually quite lovely (in pockets...at times...) I'm fairly certain people sleep on vacations, so by that criterion alone, our weekend was disqualified. (I would argue that the true hallmarks of a vacation are returning tan, fat and happy...maybe even with a bead or two in your hair...but that seemed like an impossible dream at this point, so I was willing to set the bar low:  I would have settled for just fat. But alas, my kids wouldn't even let me hit the breakfast buffet in peace...)

So no. This weekend was most definitely not a vacation. But it was a trip. 

As with most endeavors these days- there was good, there was bad, and there was ugly. Sometimes all of them within a matter of minutes. There were points when I contemplated, seriously contemplated leaving at least one of the (screaming) children on the side of the road. But somehow, mercifully, there were just as many moments when I wanted to stop time and bottle up their exact essence right now because they're each just too perfect (and funny, and adorable) to comprehend. And then they'd scream some more and I'd be back to my plan of leaving them at the nearest service station to fend for themselves. You know. Just til they're 18 or so. (Don't worry...I'd never actually abandon my children. And if I did, it'd be at one of the really nice rest stops with an Auntie Ann's. I'm not a monster.) 

Traveling with kids is memory making on warp speed...it's highs and lows jammed back-to-back too fast to make much sense of them. You're laughing and crying, and yelling, and hugging, and when it's all over you look at each other and promise you'll never do this again, simultaneously knowing you absolutely will. It is yin and yang. Bitter and oh so sweet. 

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Catching chicken nugget throw-up in a towel, confirming our suspicions that yes, Fin does indeed get carsick. 

Glimpsing in the rear view mirror to see sisters sharing their toys and helping calm down their baby brother. (and maaaaaaybe taking a Dramamine induced nap).

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Turning a 4.5 hour trip into 6, due primarily to the longest rest-stop lunch in history, inclusive of one water bottle related tantrum, and no less than four separate bathroom trips. 

Catching up with old friends, chatting, laughing, and staying up way past our old-lady bedtimes. 

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"Sleeping" sandwiched between two little bodies, striving to keep everyone quiet enough to avoid waking the baby before the sunrise. 

Organizing glee-filled races to press the "excavator!" button (again, and again).

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Nursing a sick baby at 2pm, while my lunch sits juuuuuust out of reach. 

Getting snotty, but heart meltingly sweet snuggles from the fever-stricken baby. 

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Seeing the clock strike 11pm, and 2am, and 6am (and maybe a couple hours in between).

Watching Piper swim a lap around the entire pool by herself (with a little help from her floaties). 

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Running out of discipline options at bedtime, putting Fin in the bathroom for (yet another) time out. 

Laying next to her afterwards to try to talk about being a better listener, and having her rub my arm with her jelly's ears as a silent form of apology.

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Packing everything we could possibly need for an day spent a family's house, and realizing we didn't 
bring a pack and play for naps, and oh...we're also out of diapers.

Watching Dustin's family embrace the girls and seeing them play with their cousins like they've known them forever. 

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Accidentally bringing up religion and politics, in one very ill-conceived attempt at conversation.

Holding hands with the girls after a long day, telling them, "I love you little people.", and hearing Fin, with all the sincerity in the world reply, "I love you too, Mom. And you love me. And I love you too."

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I could go on forever, highlighting tiny snippets I never want to forget (mismatched flip flops, unbridled enthusiasm over Fruit Loops, searching for duck logos on every hotel surface), and mini-nightmares I'm thankful are already fading from my mind (the whining. oh the whining. SO MUCH whining). This weekend was the full spectrum:  the absolute worst...the holding puke in your hands, strung out to your wit's end with complaining, bleary-eyed exhaustion, worst. And the absolute best...the childlike wonder, heart might burst, memories for a lifetime best.

It wasn't a vacation. But it was a trip. 

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Fearless Creativity

 Last January (yes...meaning over a year ago; Timeliness isn't exactly my blogging strong suit.) I attended my first annual meeting at my company. Our entire office gathered together for an afternoon, and after some awards, some speeches, and some business highlights, our CEO came up to speak. She shared with us that she had recently done something she deemed terrifying: take trapeze lessons. I guess her sister (and niece) really wanted to try it, and they dragged her along with them. She hates heights so was more than a little reluctant to do it, but in the end she went for it, and had a blast. She was so proud and inspired by the experience of being out of her comfort zone, that she decided to challenge us all to do the same. She (and the rest of our company's leadership) set up a program they called "Fearless Creativity" to encourage us to try something new. Each associate got $100 to spend on anything we wanted...with two caveats: It had to be something that takes you out of your comfort zone, and you had to do it with another company employee.

I was blown away. $100 isn't a ton of money, but multiplied out by every associate, it was a decent investment. But more than that, I loved the idea that they were truly "walking the walk". They didn't just tell us to try something new, or encourage us to build bonds with one another- they set up a system that rewards it. I couldn't wait to figure out what I was going to spend my fearless money on...and I had the extra bonus of a built in partner (one of the many perks of working with my husband!) Dustin and I thought for a bit, and decided we'd take music lessons: banjo for him, mandolin for me.

Fast forward a year later...the annual meeting was coming up, and they put a call out to all associates asking us to share our Fearless Creativity experience. And for some reason...maybe before I could think it all the way through...I volunteered. I submitted a draft of my three minute speech, and they accepted it. Oh...and asked me to play the mandolin. That I hadn't planned on. Committing to speak in front of 350+ people was already another fearless experience for me (I joked that I should get an extra $100 just for talking) but playing (and singing!) downright terrified me. But...I still had my partner (/husband) along for the ride and somehow we decided it would be fun. Or worth it. Or...something...

We had two weeks to prepare, and I pretty much practiced my speech and my performance nonstop (I'm fairly certain I played the mandolin more in those two weeks than I had in the entire year). Dustin's role was to play the cajon (a box drum) so he was far less nervous than I was, but he still served as my cheerleader, encouraging me that I would be great, people would love it, and that I would most likely not pee my pants out of sheer fright. The girls even got into the action: Fin took iphone videos of me practicing, and Piper encouraged me: "I made you a picture. It says I love you, and it means you're the best singer in the world", and "You can do it, Mama. You'll have Daddy with you, so you can do it!"

So with my cheering squad behind me, I convinced myself it really would be fun. Or worth it. Or...something...

Finally, the day arrived:

Not feeling particularly fearless...(understatement 😳) but I believe in trying anyway. So here goes... #fearlesscreativity #mandolindreamin

A photo posted by Courtney Bowden (@bowdenisms) on Jan 28, 2016 at 9:42am PST

Yeah, did I mention it was at the Southern Theatre? Not exactly helping support my "no big deal" outlook...

So with my knees knocking, and my voice shaking...we took the stage.
I couldn't see a THING...it was all bright lights, and then pitch black, so that was a bit unnerving. But I made it through the talk with only a few stumbles (The crowd was pretty forgiving...probably because I referenced Star Wars early on, and included some crazy cat pictures in my slide show. Gotta play to your audience). And then...it was time to play. I couldn't hear myself at all (no sound monitors, just a mic projecting our performance out into the abyss) so that made things a little tough, but beginners can't be choosers- I won't blame the set up. I wasn't aiming for perfection, but if I'm being honest, the song went far worse than any of our rehearsals. At one point I looked at Dustin with my "I want to sink through the stage and die" face. (He gave me his "You're fine, keep going, you got this" face in return). But the entire subject of my talk was about trying things...even if you might fail...so the show went on. I don't remember much from the performance- I do recall people clapping along at least, so that was a good thing- but our plan to keep things short paid off, and it was over before I could melt into a puddle of my own mortification. There was a ton of cheering, which I didn't think was entirely out of pity, and we made our way back to our seats, slightly sweaty (me), thankful it was over (me again) and looking forward to drinks at the after party (both of us).

Overall, I was proud of what I had shared, even if the performance didn't go exactly as well as I would have liked. What I wasn't expecting, was the reaction I got from my coworkers. Part of the reason I was so nervous (besides being entirely unqualified for the task) was because I work at an advertising agency: a place known for being on the cutting-edge of cool. Me and my tiny-stringed hobby don't exactly scream "hip" (or whatever the kids are saying these days). I was scared I'd be terrible, but worse than that, I was scared they'd think I thought I was good. Its one thing to play for my kids in the living room, or even to sing in front of our church...but a front row of NYC-based designers, all wearing flat brimmed hats? Eeek.

But to my (very thankful) surprise, everyone couldn't have been more supportive. Seriously...I don't say this to brag...people were exceedingly, overwhelmingly kind. Yes, part of it was that I was now known as "that girl who played mandolin on stage", so they may have felt like they had to say something when they passed me in the hallways, but mostly, people were truly and sincerely complimentary. So I basked in the attention a little (can you blame me? a little flattery feels nice!) but truly I was touched that so many people seemed to really connect with what I shared. I don't think it was because I was exceptionally good at the mandolin (I'm not), and I don't even know that it was entirely the power of the message I prepared. What I think people really responded to was the vulnerability. They related to wanting to try something, but being scared of failure. They watched a super-regular girl push herself to do something scary because she believed it was worth it, and they saw a piece of themselves. Person after person said that it was so brave, and that they never could have done that. But they also said watching me made them want to try. I heard about dreams people had that they never felt like they could attempt. I heard about bucket-list items they were considering more seriously now. One guy even told me his wife signed them both up for guitar lessons that night.

And that is what I'm proud of.

It's not about what I did; how good I was, or wasn't. It was about having an dream, believing it was worth something, and despite the fear of failure, having the courage to try.

Fearless Creativity from Courtney Bowden on Vimeo.

What's your version of the mandolin dream? And what's stopping you from pursuing it? Go...sing, play, do, try. 

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