Guilt.

Today, my beautiful friend Danielle and some of my other co-workers threw me a baby shower at work. Two other women at our school are expecting boys, and our school wanted to celebrate this with us which I totally appreciated. However, I'm not really thrilled to be the center of attention. I'm not girly, I feel kind of awkward when people are watching me open gifts, and I think to myself, "So many of these people would rather be somewhere else." Because of this, I sometimes fail to enjoy the moment. But, I am who I am... Which brings me to the reason I decided to blog in the first place.


One thing I realized during my baby shower two weeks ago and the shower today at work is that "it" still hasn't set in. I'm surrounded by onesies and burp clothes and bibs and little socks and booties. What used to be our home office is now a quaint nursery with a crib, rocking chair and soft blankets. I look around at this stuff, and I wonder why I don't feel different. How can I not feel different? Each day, I have the feet of a little 4.5 lb boy kicking my ribs. It's uncomfortable. It's fascinating that he's in there growing and I'll meet him in fewer than six weeks. But I don't glow and talk about it all the time. And for this entire pregnancy, I've often felt one emotion: guilt. Guilt because I am not what everyone seems to expect me to be.


Early in my pregnancy, when I literally couldn't do anything but hug the toilet seat or clutch a plastic bag in the car, I wondered why I got pregnant in the first place. And I felt guilty. As this pregnancy has gone on, we've had to make financial sacrifices--no, we can't spend money on that for Christmas because we need to buy furniture for the nursery--and I wondered why I got pregnant in the first place. And I felt guilty. When I tell someone I may not have another child, that one might be enough for me, and they look at me funny, I feel guilty. When people tell me that breastfeeding is the absolute BEST thing for a child and it will be SO detrimental if I don't succeed in doing it, I feel anxious--what if I can't or don't? Does that make me a bad mother?


But I've been thinking about things lately. When I went to high school, and many of the girls around me loved to shop til they dropped... or wore a lot of make-up... or had more purses and shoes than they knew what to do with... or had sex with their boyfriends while I waited til marriage... Did I feel guilty? Did I feel like less of a woman? No. So why should becoming a mother let me question who I am?


I don't think natural labor is the most beautiful miracle in the world. I think it's going to be painful and I don't look forward to it. Will it be completely and totally worth it? For sure. When I see what I hope is a healthy, tan baby who resembles my husband, I will probably forget about all the nausea, all the contractions, all the discomfort, and I'll be totally content. I'll forget about all the anxiety and all the wonderings and all the, "Why did I get pregnant?" However, I can ALMOST guarantee I'll never smile and tell someone that I didn't want every painkiller in the world while I went through it.


I would like to get my Masters degree and still pursue a career while simultaneously mothering my child. Some people would call this selfish. Well, guess what? I don't care about some people anymore. My husband and I love each other, and intend to raise our son with as much love, faith and support as we are able to give. Our son will be surrounded by family members who adore him and will guide him as he grows and makes decisions. I'm learning that I don't have to feel guilty for being me AND being a mother. 


One of my closest friends who recently had a daughter wrote me a note that simply said this: "Don't let 'mommy guilt' get to you." It's probably the best advice I've gotten so far. I'll never wear a ton of make-up, buy designer purses or wear high heels. Just like I probably won't have 5 kids and dedicate my life to homeschooling them all. I respect and admire many of my friends who have mastered the art of being a woman and a mother. And what I notice when I look at all of them is that they are all different. All good mothers, but all different.


I am who I am. And I think today, I'm okay with that.

Unanswered questions.

I wish my Bop was still alive, so I could ask him how he did it; and by it, I mean everything.


I would ask him if he really was truly happy, because it seems that no one ever is.


I would ask him if he was ever scared, because I am.


I would ask him what his first thoughts were when he woke up every day and when he got into bed at night.


I would ask him how he managed to love a woman unconditionally for 61 years, and how she managed to love him back. I would ask him what they fought about, and who won. 


I would ask him how he raised three children, and coped with losing one.


I would ask him how he remained friends with his brother as they grew up and started their own lives.


I would ask him how he kept his faith in God and our country when he was away at war.


I would ask him if he had any regrets... things he wishes he would've done, or things he wishes he hadn't.


I would ask him about his favorite family memories, his favorite color, his favorite baseball player, his favorite food (which probably wasn't something my grandmother made) because for some reason, as time goes by, I'm forgetting things.


But most of all, I would ask him to help me. He did such a good job living life, and I know that I'm really not.

If anything.

I listened to the music

And the rain

And somehow remembered who I used to be.

And I cried for the first time in a long time

Because of how much I had changed.

I don’t have the same smile, I thought

The same laugh or the same heart.

I folded the laundry, piece by piece

Monotonously, quietly,

Thinking about the others out there

Alone and scared

Who might be listening to the same music

And the same rain

Thinking about who they used to be

And wondering what they will become…

If anything.

Will you be a mama's boy or daddy's little girl?

"I wonder who you'll look like...
Will your hair fall down and curl,
Will you be a mama's boy
Or daddy's little girl?"


I am nearly seven weeks pregnant, and I don't think it really hit me until I looked at the ultrasound screen yesterday and saw the speedy fluttering of what will be my son's or daughter's heart. Even when I'm holding this child and watching it grow up, I don't think I'll ever believe it. It feels like just yesterday I was a little girl myself, or learning to ride a bike, or a teenager falling in love.


I've never been a baby person, and I don't consider myself put together enough to teach anyone else how to live. I'm not over-emotional or attached or dependent. I don't know why God thinks I'm qualified. But I do know that there is something beautiful about this. And it's going to change my life and Jimmy's life forever.

Live and let live.

I had a very vivid, emotional dream the other night that raised back to life feelings I have tried to bury over the last five years. Without going into detail, there was a situation in my life five years ago that had an extremely negative impact on me in almost any way a person can be impacted. I'm still not over it.

But I realized something this week. If there's one thing that this situation taught me it's to forgive; to not let something eat me up inside; to not retaliate immediately but to sleep on it; to let my feelings subside; to let the hurt wash away.

I couldn't tell you how I learned it because it's been such a painful, gradual process. I probably couldn't teach you how to do it. But I'm actually learning to let things go and accept that some things just don't change. Maybe you can, too.

Isolated? I'm surrounded.

Tonight, Jimmy and I watched "Up in the Air." I found the plot of the movie to be fairly predictable, but who can resist a vulnerable George Clooney? In the movie, Clooney's character Ryan Bingham, a lifelong bachelor addicted to living out of suitcases and in airplanes while maintaining a job through which he fires people from their jobs, gives multiple "motivational" speeches using the analogy of baggage. "How much does your life weigh?" he asks. "Imagine for a second that you're carrying a backpack. I want you to pack it with all the stuff that you have in your life... Now I want you to fill it with people... feel the weight of that bag."

When I attended Southeastern University in Lakeland, the now-deceased but dear to my heart Pastor Roosevelt Hunter preached a sermon similar to this motivational speech. He used a line of scripture about Saul, who was hidden among the baggage when the people came to crown him as king. I've heard these analogies before, and I can relate to them, but George Clooney's character made it all the more real for me. Reason? Ryan Bingham was isolated. He believed he was surrounded by people on a daily basis, and that made him normal, but he was void of any real connection with another human being. Isolated.

When I was young, I was impressionable. Most children are. I surrounded myself with people, then found them to be the wrong people. I believed things, then found out that they weren't true. Santa Clause doesn't exist. Neither does the Easter Bunny. Adults lie. Other children lie. There are bad people in the world. I might be one of them.

Realizations cause pain. It's almost like I can look back into my childhood, into my teen years, into my college years, and see the strips of innocence and naivety peeled right off of me. Now, I'm at the point where I don't want to realize anything anymore. I don't want to fill my backpack or take it with me anywhere. I want it emptied, and in my closet--isolated. Matter of fact, I don't really want a backpack at all.

I should have been much more selective with my knowledge, with my circle of friends, with the pieces of my heart. But how do you know to do that until you've done it the other way? The wrong way? You don't. But now I know what I should have done, what I want to do. Because in the end, when Ryan Bingham changes "for the better"--in most people's eyes--and decides to leave his isolated life of luxury, decides to care for his family, decides to take a leap of faith for the woman he might love, what happens? He gets burned. Don't we all?

After all, Harry Potter was a chess piece.

It's so strange how often I find myself so wrapped up in things that really don't matter, only to be shaken out of that egocentricity by bad news. Even though I come off as a sarcastic, confident, bossy person, I really have always had a strong sense of compassion for others. When my friends or family hurt, I hurt. When animals hurt, I hurt. And as strange as it sounds, when strangers hurt, I hurt. That's why I went on so many mission trips. That's why I can't watch the news.

Tonight, I found out news that I wish I had been listening for two months ago. I found out that my childhood friend's dad passed away in May. As soon as I read his mother's message to me about how lonely she still feels and how it'll never be the same, I started crying. I don't think I cried because I remembered the man she loved so much, or because of what a good man he was. James (Jimmy) Schroeder was a good man and I do remember his kindness to my brother and me when we were young, but I know I was crying because of the people he left behind.

Loss is one of the most difficult things to face. I can't imagine losing my husband, my parents or my brother. I've lost all of my grandparents, and that's been hard enough on me--every song I hear makes me picture my grandfather's face. I guess I just feel like every once in a while, I should venture out of my circle, open my eyes, and see what's happening to other people.

About six months back, my mom ran into Theresa and found out that Jimmy had been battling leukemia. I didn't search for the family on facebook or pick up a phone. I probably said a prayer, but that was it. If I had been watching or listening, I may have known about Jimmy Schroeder's passing. I may have been able to attend the funeral, and tell Theresa how sorry I am that she lost the absolute and only love of her life. But sometimes, I'm just not paying attention. And I think sometimes, it's not only selfishness, but fear that distracts me.

I don't want the word "widow" in my vocabulary--I doubt anyone does. It was my husband Jimmy's 25th birthday today. We're young, we're healthy. But someday, we won't be. It scares me to think of ever having to live without my Jimmy. I can imagine that every day when something happens, whether good or bad, the first person Theresa wants to call is her husband--and he's not there anymore. That feeling of emptiness may become more manageable with time, but it never goes away.

Life is just sad sometimes. But even though I haven't spoken to Jimmy, Theresa or Joel in a number of years, I remember the strength and love that built their household. I know that some people, like Theresa, are meant to go on, to live on, to honor those who've gone before them, as an example of hope to others.

My mom and I were talking tonight about how we both want to learn to play chess. She said, "I know how the pieces are supposed to move, but I don't know the strategy." As cliché as it sounds, I immediately thought that what she said was a perfect analogy for life. My life. Theresa's life. I know how to walk, how to talk, how to drive, how to do my job on a daily basis, how to function. But do I really know the strategies to life? Do I know how to love, forgive, cope, succeed, let go? Or am I just a chess piece?