Truthful Tuesday... The Motherhood Version

1. I despise whining.  I really, really hate it.  It makes me clench my teeth, and my head spin.

2.  I love my kids all the time, every day, every hour--they are my chosen 'career' choice, if you will, and I don't regret it.  However, there are times I don't like them very much and I begin to think about running away to a hippie colony in CA, and calling myself Lavender Sunshine Moonbeam.  In fact, as a mom, I've dreamt of running away more often than I ever did as a child.  One night I almost did, but I couldn't find my other shoe.  Thankfully, we laugh about that now ("Hey Mom, remember that time you accused Dad of stealing your shoe so you couldn't run away?")....  Nothing, and I do mean nothing, in life, has frustrated me more than being a mom.  But, nothing else in life has rewarded me as much as motherhood, either.

3.  Avery is a non-stop talker.  From the second he's up, to literally falling asleep mid-sentence when we put him to bed.  He's also recently begun talking in his sleep.  There are days I can handle it, days it makes my head spin, and other days I just cry.

4.  This time last year, I was hoping to be pregnant with Child #3 by now.  Truthfully, we haven't even tried yet.  We've talked about it plenty, but we're both on the fence; my health, and raising the two we already have, continue to be huge issues.

5. Six and a half days out of seven, I suck at motherhood.  I fail miserably.  I keep hoping the few times I get it right will make up for all the other times I get it so terribly wrong.

6.  Knowing that we had no control over the age difference between Avery and Noah, I still believe that if we'd been able to have Avery sooner, we might have noticed and acted upon Noah's differences earlier.  There is a lot of guilt for not recognizing everything with Noah earlier than we did, and we often wonder how much we contributed to his difficulties.

7.  My kids are the reason I started teaching myself how to bake and cook properly.  I wanted better, healthier alternatives for them (and they still prefer corn dogs and chicken nuggets...).

8.  I've learned more from Noah than I could ever hope to teach him.  He's an amazing kid.

9.  Sometimes I have panic attacks when I stop to think about everything I'm trying to teach Noah that he isn't quite 'getting.'  We actually kind of hit a wall a few weeks ago, as parents, worrying about his future, and wondering what kind of provisions we need to make for him as an adult.  Noah is perfectly capable of many great things, but sometimes the drive just isn't there.

10.  My kids are dorks, but they're my dorks.  And I strive every day to be the kind of mom they deserve.  They're pretty awesome, and they deserve awesome in return.  There are more days than I care to count when we all miss the mark horribly.

11.  I really do believe it takes a village to raise children.  I tried doing it by myself with Noah his first few years, and not only did I really mess up, but I nearly broke both of us.  I'm always grateful for our good friends, teachers, professionals, and everyone else we've been provided with.  I can't do it without them.  With Noah, I couldn't quite grasp the concept of handing my child over to someone else: "This is my crying baby to deal with."  With Avery: "Sure!  You want him?  Here he is!"

12.  Noah likes having his ear lobe rubbed, and his cheek caressed ("Counterclockwise, Mom!").  Those are my love languages with him.  He will often plop himself beside me, and place my hand on his cheek or ear lobe.  Sometimes, if we're in public and he starts getting antsy, I'll reach over and start rubbing his ear lobe.  His instant reaction always makes me laugh.  With Avery, we sniff ears (another story for another time), and squeeze each other's hands when we're holding them.

13.  I'm a Type A-er, I have OCD, I plan everything to a T, and I have serious control issues.  I learned right off the bat, beginning with Noah's conception, that none of that works in motherhood.  It wasn't until Avery that I finally figured out how to loosen up a bit more though.  With Avery, I've also learned to learn more, if that makes sense--I've relaxed (but only a little...), learned how to take advice, and learned how to follow my child's lead, rather than trying to make them fit my molds of how/who/what they should be.

14.  My kids have chores.  Yes, even Avery.  Why?  Because I want them to learn how to be responsible adults who can take care of themselves.

Ugh

So many of my posts recently have been rather heavy.  There are updates and revelations I need to share, but I thought I'd share my yesterday with you today (just because it's less of an emotional toll on me!). I figure y'all could probably use a good laugh.

Yesterday began at 5:30 with the house alarm suddenly realizing it hasn't been connected to a house phone for the past 6 days.  Shawn and I recognized the different sound of the alarm (as opposed to the usual blaring that occurs when Avery pushes the Panic button), and were a bit slow to respond.  Captain Panic--I mean, Noah, was faster than us, reaching the key pad first, and immediately began yelling, "THERE'S TROUBLE!  THE PERIMETER HAS BEEN BREACHED," upon noticing the 'trouble' light was lit up bright red. No son, that's not how it works.  Naturally, Avery fed off Noah's overreaction, and began yelling about the trouble, begging us to protect him.

And my day began.  Because 5:30 is a perfectly acceptable time for my children to be wide awake and begin their day.  Sigh.

I won't bore you with all the little things in between the alarm and what happened 12 hours later while I was cooking dinner--for example, the trip to the neuropsychiatrist's office, where my children made it obvious we belong there, or having to literally shove my children in between two cars in a parking lot to avoid being hit by the woman backing out while smoking her cigarette, texting, and drinking her coffee....  I'll warn you though--the barista at Starbucks gives you a really weird look when you ask if she can add a shot of vodka to your shot of espresso.

Instead, I'll just finish up with this last story.

I was cooking dinner in the kitchen (okay, not sure well else I'd be cooking dinner, but you know, given the day I had....) when Avery came in and threw up.  As I was yelling at him to run to the bathroom while I shoved the nearest pot under his mouth, it did not yet occur to me that he was turning from beet red to blue.  Yup.  Up the hallway we ran, while he continued to throw up, and I realized--choke.  And what should come up with the final heave?  A QUARTER.  The very same quarter I'd taken away from him less than five minutes before he appeared in the kitchen.

Later, Shawn and I were talking with Avery about what we put in our mouths and what we don't.  I asked him, "So are you going to put anything other than food, milk, juice or water in your mouth ever again?"  PAUSE.  God help me, the dear child had to think about it.

The Straw and The Camel

I was going to call this one "I Need Vodka".... But, well, we won't go there.

It's been a windshield-breaking, phone cracking, kitchen fire setting, meltdown-having, Prednisone-filled, PMS-fueled week, on top of the 6 weeks I've already been sick with symptoms no one can really explain.  Avery has been up since 5:45 this morning, talking absolutely non-stop.  I'm not looking for rainbows and unicorns,  I'm looking for my bed.  Worst of all, my oldest is being bullied to the point at which he's talking about "taking their advice" concerning suicide.  How exactly is one supposed to respond to that?  Not just to the bullying, but to the immediate fear of letting your child out of your sight ever again?

Yeah, I'm not handling stress all that well this week.

To say I'm a little extra sensitive to things this week would be an understatement.  I'm tired, I'm worn, I'm angry for my son, I can't get through five minutes of the day without bursting into tears over one thing or another.  I am on overload.  I am RAW.

I went to work this morning--my safe place.  The center has always been my haven.  ALWAYS.  Daily, life-involved crap is not allowed there.  There is a peace that envelopes me as I walk through the door, inhale the scent of the pantry (it smells like my grandmother's--don't give me a hard time), and just kind of take in everything God has to offer me, and the rest of us, there.  There, we are about one another, and those God brings to us to care for, and even when nothing is right, everything is okay.

Today, things crashed a little bit.  Today, my haven wasn't the haven it usually is.  Today, it was the straw that broke the camel's back.  Today, I actually had to remove myself from a situation while there.

Remember I said I'm already feeling pretty sensitive?  Well, when people are insensitive, when they proclaim to know a lot about something (nothing), and then continue to babble incessantly on that topic in which they are ignorant--I fume.  I silently beg that person to JUST.  SHUT.  UP.

And, knowing me as well as you do by now, I'm sure you also know the term 'autistic' sets me off. My son HAS autism, he is NOT autism--do you see the different when you call him, and others with autism, 'autistic?'  Autism is not what makes Noah Noah, it's part of him.  Some call it nitpicky, some say I'm arguing semantics.  To me, it would be the same as calling a child who is overweight, a 'fatty.'  It's a label, not a diagnosis.  I don't like labels, because then we forget about the person inside.  GET.  IT.  RIGHT.

Today, those two factors--ignorant people, and incorrect terminology--came crashing into my already on-edge, oversensitive, bruised mommy self esteem.  There was a woman going on, and on, and on--about autistic kids.  I've never met this woman before, but she claimed to be a teacher's aide who--ding ding--worked with "those poor autistic kids."  She went on and on about how hard they try, they just have so much against them, life is just so hard for them, it's so frustrating working with them--I cringed.  I wanted to hide under the table.  I tried to tune her out, I really did.  I swear I did.  I wanted to turn around and stare at her, hoping lasers would somehow shoot out of my eyes.  Our admin noticed  I was wearing my shoulders as earrings at that point; she put her hand on my one of my new earrings, both of us realizing I just needed to move to a different room.

I did--change rooms--but not before I screamed at her, in my head of course, that my child kicks autism's ass every single day of his life.  He not only does that, but he ROCKS it.  He is not autism's bitch, autism is HIS bitch.  My child is not autism, he is NOAH.  I will not allow my child to be a victim of autism (or anything else)--he will be a survivor and thrive in life.  Did you get that this time?

I really wish I had a great message to end this post with--something snazzy like, "Think before you speak." Or "Educate yourself"-- or, "You never know who is listening when you're being stupid and ignorant so please just keep your mouth shut"--but really, after spending the last 4 hours in tears, breaking down in Target just trying to choose a pair of ear buds, looking at my cracked windshield, staring at my burnt up kitchen wall and cabinets, and realizing I still have another week of prednisone, and at least that long before my PMS will end, and my kid has another 5 years in school with the brats who bully him--I'm spent.  There's no message here this time, just me: An angry, frustrated, tired, raw, worn out mommy who is in desperate need of a little bit of nice.

New Chapters

One of the chapters in Noah's life-book has been his therapy riding. This is, quite possibly, the most important chapter in his book. There are days I don't know where we'd be without these horses, instructors, volunteers and staff--without this farm, this therapy.  It's not just horse therapy, it's family therapy.  I still remember his first lesson--watching that grin on his face through the tears on my own.

Turning onto the gravel road, there is an inaudible, yet collective sigh from everyone in the car.  Our shoulders droop, no longer carrying the weight of the world.  Our bodies relax, our faces smile, our lungs take deep, cleansing breaths.  None of the daily nonsense is allowed here, and for an hour each week, everything is okay.  Noah is just a normal kid, doing normal kid things, happy, knowledgable, safe.  Everyone there is there for our kids; no politics, no 'my kid is more troubled/more normal/worse/better than your kid,' we all live on neighboring planets--if not the same one--and we're all there, all for the same reasons.  Kindred spirits, weary, battle-worn soldiers, parents searching for reprieve.

Our family--and I say all of us, not just Noah, because we all benefit from our weekly farm visits--has received blessing upon blessing just by being part of this therapy center.  In addition to the horses and amazing people, we're blessed each week just by the beautiful location of the farm and the nearby lake.  We've been given--given--opportunities to attend events, and just do fun things as a family.  The biggest blessing obviously is seeing our son happy and successful.  

Before riding, I carted Noah from OT to PT to ST, to social skills groups, to this and that and everything else.  Nothing worked--because he wasn't interested.  It was boring for him.  Most of it took more work than he was willing to put into it.  There were countless arguments, and we weren't getting anywhere.

Enter Miss J.

At wit's end, I emailed a friend at church, saying "Hey, I know you ride.... Know of anyplace that does therapy riding?"  As a matter of fact, she didn't just know of a place, she taught at such a place.

Miss J worked with Noah for over a year.  She saw things in my child that I myself struggled to see at times, and was desperate for others to see in him.  She saw potential, she saw worthiness, she saw a natural gift with horses and horsemanship--and she worked hard with Noah to cultivate that, to grow him, and to help him see what he needs to see in himself.  Miss J has helped Noah learn to be comfortable in his own skin, to learn to be Noah, to accept instruction and praise.  She took complete leaps of faith with him, she set high standards, and he has far surpassed that.  He excels.  Not only has she helped him in the ring, but she's helped our family out of the ring, by securing long-term scholarship money for this expensive therapy. Not only did this therapy begin with Miss J, but it began--and continues--because of her.  I am humbled by her love for my boy.  Maybe she was 'just doing her job,' but it's never felt that way.  When you have a child like Noah, you spend your life screaming at people to take note, to see your child as worthy, to help you, to help your child--and when that finally happens, well, it's pretty awesome.  Miss J managed to do all of that without treating him any differently, without making life 'easy' for Noah, all while treating him like a typical kid.  He's not "Noah with all the issues," he's just Noah.  Noah wouldn't be at the point he is at today if not for all the work Miss J put into just doing her job.

Miss J left this summer to have a baby, and fought hard for Noah to have the instructor she wanted him to have, the instructor she knew he needs--and now we have Miss C, another incredible gift to our family.   Miss C is part of our horse chapter, but is creating a new chapter of her own, as well.  Like Miss J, she sees the potential Noah carries within him, and he's just Noah.

We knew in our hearts that Miss J wouldn't be coming back.  She set everything into motion for Noah, then took a step back.  But, she was still there in the background.  Last week though, she announced she and her family are moving back home.  Even with Noah's amazing progress with Miss C, I'm experiencing some grief over this. While I'm happy for Miss J, and I will always be grateful for her and everything she's done, I will miss her terribly.  Today, trying to say goodbye, and thank you, I couldn't.  I can't do it without tears, and there just aren't words for everything I want her to know.  Instead, I settled for a wholly inadequate "Thank you" in a quaking, trembling voice.

I don't know if Miss J will ever know what she has meant to our family, but I am quite sure she isn't finished touching lives.  I do know that wherever she is, wherever she goes, she will be a gift.

Love, According to Avery

It's a boy!!!

Oh, I should probably mention our new addition is a kitten--Avery's kitten, Max Steele.  It turns out the kitten Avery fell in love with is a pretty sick little guy, but we know he was meant for us.  I doubt anyone else would've taken him as sick as he was, and I hate thinking of him being sick in a cage (remember, I'm the one who will take the elderly cat/dog/child with 3 legs, diabetes, a thyroid condition, blind in one eye, deaf in both ears, with cancer, before I will adopt a healthy kitten/puppy/child...  Everyone deserves a chance to have a family and be loved).  As BFF Sharon said, he needs us, and our family has a way of making the misfits fit.

Max has been ours for a little over 36 hours.  He's been quarantined in the bathroom for all of that, and will have to stay in there until he improves.  It breaks my heart, but one sick kitty is a lot easier (and cheaper) to care for than three sick kitties.

I've watched Avery carefully and what I've seen has amazed me, making my mommy heart burst.  Whoever says kids don't know anything about love is, well, an idiot.
     *I feel as though there should be a disclaimer here about teenagers and 'love,' but that's another post, right?

On the way home with Max (his crate safely buckled into the seat next to Avery), Avery talked to him about his new home, his new family, and how much he's going to like it here: "You're gonna wuv your new home Max Steele.  I'm going to wuv you and hold you and pway with you."  He shopped carefully for Max's supplies, and proudly--gently--carried Max in his crate out to the car, and into the house.

Avery has watched entire movies on the bathroom floor just so he can spend time with Max.  He's taken his toys, games and books in there.  Avery sits in there, talking, petting and brushing (and feeding Max treats...  lots and lots of treats).  He made a get well card for his cat, which we taped to the side of the washer where Max can see it.  Avery goes in every few minutes just to say hi and check up on his kitty.  He's been going in without me reminding him, and I hear him in there telling Max how much he loves him.  I found 60 photos of Max on my phone, each one obscured by a little finger.  We did let Max sleep with Avery the past two nights, and when we went in to check on them later, we found them curled up tight, Max purring happily.  We did put Max back in the bathroom before we went to bed so he could eat and potty, and this morning Avery went straight there to say good morning to Max.

Avery told me yesterday, "I bwoke my heart to give Max my wuv and make him better.  And he bwoke his heart to give me his wuv!"  How is that my four year old understands what it takes to love another living creature, but most of us adults can't grasp that concept?  I really think we get dumber with age...

Some of this I talked with Avery about before bringing Max home, and I've continued to remind Avery  over the past two days. But, most of this--it's all Avery.

I really don't like taking credit for my kids.  And I'm not saying that as a martyr in a misguided effort to be humble.  It's all them and God, truly.  How they are turning out is not a reflection of my lack of parenting skills.   Most of the time, I'm not even leading by good example (you do not want to see me in traffic or after a bad day in the kitchen....).  My prayer for Noah and Avery is that they grow up to be good, Christian, mature gentleman in spite of my failures as their mom.  I want them to be full of compassion, love, acceptance of others, and understanding, not just for other humans, but all life.  I want them to value all creatures, and see each life as a gift.  I'm proud of how they're turning out.  They are great kids simply because I won the luck of the draw on this--they're great kids because they're great kids.

And for that, I'm grateful.

Seeing Noah

We've been trying out new churches over the past few months--but that's another post.

The pastor today jumped right into Revelations, and I have to say, I admire a pastor who isn't afraid to do so.  Again, that's another post.

In part of today's message, the pastor began speaking of what life during and after the rapture will be like--everything that will be eradicated when all is said and done.  When he got to orphans and foster children (maybe I should phrase that, 'children without parents and homes' instead), abortions, miscarriages, still births, birth defects, poverty, and other heartaches and hardships our children face today--and we face as parents--I had to choke back sobs.  When he started naming off specific birth defects, I had to cling to my seat with one hand, and Shawn with the other, anchoring my feet to the floor and my butt to my chair, fighting the urge to jump up while shouting "NO MORE AUTISM!"  Even writing this post, even telling Shawn, and BFFs Sharon and Jen, about it, my eyes still fill with tears, and I still have to fight the urge to break down and cry.

The thing is though, I don't think of Noah as being defective.  He's different, yes, but far from defective.  God made Noah in His own image.  My child is fearfully and wonderfully made by our Creator Himself.  God knew Noah before He formed him in my womb.  God has great plans for His--our--son, and He knew those plans, walked Noah's path, before Noah was born.  And another thing?  Noah is who he is because of ASD--he's not ASD, but it is part of what has made him Noah.  I don't know who he'd be like without it, but there are parts of him I absolutely love and adore, knowing full well he wouldn't have those traits without it.  But would I make life easier for him, given the chance?  Absolutely. He's my son, and I want what's best for him.

Noah frustrates me at times.  At times, raising him is a full-on, hair-pulling (and raising!), foot-stomping, downright maddening experience; not just for me, but for himself as well.  This is not something I would ever wish upon any child, or any parent, most of all, my own.  I admit, with tremendous guilt (because there's a part of me that feels as though that might say something about how I feel about Noah), to breathing a sigh of relief when Avery showed no signs of it.  I will also admit that at times I feel guilty for complaining about Noah's autism; after all, in the grand scheme of things, his is an incredibly mild case.  On the flip side, there are also times I am guiltily grateful it is not something else with which we struggle.  But seeing Noah frustrated with himself is enough to drive this mom to tears.  Some days, it's just too much.  Living as though we are in the movie Groundhog Day, day in and day out, is enough to make me wonder just how long it will be before I end up in a pretty little padded cell with a fabulously stylish new coat, snacking on Xanax.  I love my son, but there are times I really, really hate autism.  I want to scream, "HE'S MY SON!  LEAVE HIM ALONE!"  There are times I want to rage against autism, times I want to ask God how this could possibly be part of His plan for Noah, times I just want to curl up in a ball and make it all go away.  Is it weird to want to scream at something I can't see, can't touch, can't even put a face to?

I will also tell you there is extreme joy in raising Noah.  At times, raising him can be a very humbling experience.  His triumphs are greater, his efforts bigger, his successes more celebratory, and his rare smile more precious.  I am always grateful for Noah, for his life, and the gift he is to me.  He is my hero, and I'm grateful for everything he is teaching me as I attempt to raise him up.  There are times I've even been grateful for autism, because we wouldn't be who we are today without it as a part of our lives.

I love Noah just the way he is, and I'd never seek out to change him.  Help him build coping mechanisms into his life to be able to function in society? Yes.  But change him?  No.  I don't believe my son needs to be cured, or changed, or whatever. Noah doesn't need to conform, or fit in, or be anyone but himself. But I do become frustrated for him (and yes, with him *sigh*), and in that frustration, whatever I can do to make life easier for him--I would do, I will do.  In a heartbeat.  Just like any other mom.

ASD has left both of us lonely while sitting right next to each other.  It has made it difficult for us to forge a bond; it makes it difficult for Noah to forge any bond.  It makes it difficult for Noah to not walk into traffic, to play with his brother, to make eye contact, to make friends, to be in crowds--it just makes life difficult, period.  BUT, it has also created a young man who strives for his best every day, has a love and sensitivity for animals, has a curious mind, and who makes me prouder than I could ever possibly put into words.  Noah is full of awkward goofiness, while at the same time, capable of profound thoughts that simply stun most adults.  Autism has grown and matured our family while helping us educate others, and has created goals and dreams for all of us individually, and as a family unit.  We have wonderful friends we wouldn't otherwise have because of the autism connection.  We've had experiences and opportunities we wouldn't have had without autism.  It reminds us that even the little things in life are huge, and worthy of celebrating.  We are constantly reminded to never take life too seriously. Perhaps most of all, our experiences, and autism itself, have taught us volumes about love, acceptance, differences, faith, and perseverance.

Every mom wants the best for her children, and sometimes that includes the eradication and cure of a disorder, a disease, or an illness, and even of everyday, normal difficulties and struggles our children face.  What we learn instead, is to use these trials to help make us stronger, and to help make our children better than they could ever be.  Sometimes, the difficult part--and the key in life--is remembering that what we think is best for our children, isn't what God knows is best.

What we learn, is to trust in, and lean on, God--and to teach our children to do the same.  We are mere humans, and simply cannot do this thing called 'life' on our own. 

Noah may never be 'cured' by society's standards (I won't print what I really want to say about that!), but he's imperfectly perfect (perfectly imperfect?) by our Father's standards.  Noah is perfectly imperfect to me.  And for our family, that's what matters most.

The Search For the Perfect Purse

*I feel as though I need a disclaimer here:  Contrary to the title, this is not a self-absorbed, narcissistic post about a purse! Okay, it sort of is, but that's not the point to this post, I promise!*

I like to blend in.  I do not like to stand out, or draw attention to myself.  I shrink when others draw attention to me, and pass it off with self-deprecating humor.  I am understated, introverted, quiet (well, until you get to know me....), and a people pleaser, just eager to get along and make sure everyone else is getting along.  I don't talk outside of close company for fear of sounding like an uneducated idiot. I am anything but flamboyant:  a jeans, t-shirt and flip flops kind of girl.  I don't wear loud, bold colors.  I am not comfortable in my own skin. I don't like having my picture taken, and on the rare occasion I post "selflies" on Instagram, I usually hyperventilate first.  I shy away from sleeveless shirts, shorts, short skirts and dresses, or any kind of footwear that might make me stand out.  I am not trendy or chic. I don't keep up with the latest styles. I don't shop for name brands.  My hair has been the same basic style since high school.  It took me two years to find the sandals I bought yesterday because everything was either too trendy, too colorful, too high-heeled... Just too much not me.  Two years ago, when I was shopping for new glasses, I took a leap and went with pale pink frames.  The first week I wore them, I had to fight the urge to return them for something brown.  This year, I went back to my comfy (and by comfy, I mean psychologically comfy!) brown frames from three years ago.  When we bought the jeep, I parked as far away from every other car in the parking lots so people wouldn't see me getting in and out of this trendy, flashy, sporty vehicle.  I am a housewife:  I talk like a housewife, I dress like a housewife, I walk like a housewife.  I am not California city chic, I am Bealeton townie SAHM.  I just want to blend in.  I don't want to be noticed.

I don't accept compliments well, not even from those who love me, usually deflecting them with good ol' self-deprecating humor.  I laugh and reply they have to tell me these things because it's in the "contract."  I'm not good at accepting gifts, either.

Even as I stare down the barrel of 40, I have these thoughts in my head:  "That person is wondering what in the world a girl like me is doing in a flashy vehicle like this."  If I'm wearing a sleeveless shirt or a short skirt, it's "That person is wondering who lied to me and if I even bothered looking in the mirror before leaving my house this morning."  Parenting in public brings "That person is thinking I never should've been allowed to have children."  I don't go out without make up, because then I'm positive people are staring, wondering if I know how ugly I am.  In the gym, I'm hedging my bets that the fit, skinny, beautiful people are wondering what a fat*$%& like me is doing there, besides wasting my time.  Everywhere, in my head, people are judging me.  I know in my head that I'm not important enough for strangers to give me the time of day with things like this (and even if I am, why on earth do strangers thoughts matter to me?), but this is what the Enemy, and my heart do to me--or rather, what lies in my heart after years of hurt, and what I allow the Enemy of my soul to tell me.  I'm damaged goods.

Yes, I've been in therapy.  Yes, I've been on and off anti-depressants for years.  And you want the truth?  I was even hospitalized in college.  But medication, hospitalization, and even therapy to a point, aren't going to change me.  The change has to come from within.  In some ways, it's much like getting in a cold pool: You put your toe in first, realize how cold it is, then back out.  Whereas, if you jump in all at once, you adjust much faster and easier.  Instead of jumping into the pool of confidence and throwing caution to the wind, I repeatedly dip just my toe in, backing out while yelling "I DON'T LIKE THIS!"  It's about changing my way of thinking, being confident in who my Father has created me to be.  It's about being proud of His creation, proud to be His child (oh dear, pride is another entire post....).  I don't have that confidence, and I pray for it daily.  It shouldn't ever matter to me what others think of me, but only what my Father thinks.

Lately, flipping through magazines, I've been thinking to myself, "I should dress more like that."  I've been thinking I should take more care with how I look, how I dress, how I behave.  If I project confidence, I'll be confident, right?  If I project confidence and take myself more seriously, others will too, right?  And eventually I'll learn, right?  I really don't know what has lead to the "I should"'s, especially when my husband and friends love me as I am.

Sooo....  How in the world does a purse fit into all of this????

When it comes to purses, I'm an understated, Vera Bradley girl.  I have been for years.  I can walk into a store, pick it out in five minutes, and be done with it. Muted colors, cotton fabric, nothing flashy about it.  Usually a backpack, maybe a cross-body (the easier to chase Avery with), or something with long handles that hands off my shoulder and leaves my hands free.  Everything matches (purse, wallet, accessories).  Easy, simple, done.  Truth be told, it's so easy and simple, I haven't bought a new purse in years.

And now, my good old standby is falling apart.  She's showing some wear and tear, and needs to be replaced.  With that, I decided it was time to step out of my box, OUTSIDE OF MY COMFORT ZONE, and go with something different.  Something other than Vera Bradley.  *GASP*

I gotta tell you, being outside of my comfort zone is well, it's terribly uncomfortable!

As I was walking through stores this spring I noticed the bold colors of this season.  Oranges, yellows, pinks, blues, purples.  And they have handles (I've since learned these are called 'hobo bags.')!  Handles that you carry, which means your hands aren't free!  There are so many styles to choose from, so many colors to choose from!  Colors and styles that will make me self-conscious, and possibly even draw attention to me!

Store after store, I've met with disappointment.  There's even been an anxiety attack or two, and I've even cried.

Why am I putting myself through this (my family is wondering why I'm putting THEM through this....)? Why on earth don't I just go with the nearest brown leather handbag I see, or make a dash to the nearest Very Bradley retailer?  Man, if I had a solid answer to that, I'd have a purse by now!

I think I'm trying to prove a point to myself.  I can step out of my box and be okay with it.  I can still be Amy, and have a bold-colored purse.  I'm sure it seems like such a silly thing from the outside looking in.  To me though, it gets to the root of what ails me.  If I can have a flamboyant purse, maybe I'll learn some confidence. Maybe I'll learn to not care so much what others are thinking.

Will a bold, stylish, trendy purse automatically make me a more attractive, more confident person? Absolutely not.  I'm not foolish or stupid enough to believe that.

But I think at this point, it's the principle of the thing.  It's what the purse stands for.

I think this is one of God's lessons for me.  Step out of the boat, and be okay with it.  Be the person He created me to be, and be comfortable with it.  Learn that it's okay to stand out, it's okay to be confident; and not just learn it's okay, but it's what my Father wants for me.  It's okay to be okay.

“Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.” 
― Bernard M. Baruch