little man has been on the outside longer than inside...

Happy nine months, little man - we cannot believe how much of a little kid you are growing into!  I cannot believe that you've now been on the outside for longer than you were growing in Mommy's tummy.  It feels like just yesterday that we were finding out that you were on your way, waiting and hoping for and expecting your arrival.

Your Profile
You weigh in at almost 20 pounds and getting quite tall.  You wear 9-12 month clothes, and even a few 12 month clothes.  You are becoming more and more little boy, and less and less baby.  Mommy can tell that toddler years are right around the corner.  You are pulling up and cruising around the furniture, and even occasionally free-standing, although it catches you completely off-guard most of the time!  You eat like a banshee - and so far, we haven't found anything you won't eat.  You current favorites are lentils with raisins and cumin, avocado, and, as always, banana and cheerios.  And as before, you are constantly on the go!  You badly need a haircut, but we haven't managed to do that yet!

Things you've Learned
You know how to pull up and stand up on almost anything - you are also comfortably cruising around the house on the furniture.  My guess is that you will walk before you are one.  You are also very comfortable feeding yourself - even things that you're not supposed to, like mulch, onion skins, and plastic - and are starting to learn how to use a sippy cup and a spoon.  You've learned how to splash in the bathtub, and how to turn the light in your room off and on.  You haven't said any words yet, but you love making farting noises with your mouth, and can make all the vowel sounds, plus Z, S, and B and some other indistinguishable noises.  When Mommy sings, half the time, you "sing" along with her.

Your Firsts

• You went apple picking for the first time - and loved it!
  
• You went toilet bowl fishing for the first time.  Wish I could say it'll also be your last time, but I'm not so sure.  Needless to say, the toilet locks were installed.
• You've started making farting noises all the time now - and learned how to say "S" and "Z".
• You moved to two meals of solids each day - and love it!
• You stood on your own for 5-10 seconds for the first time.
• You are no longer a vegan - you have tried meat, eggs and yogurt within the last month
• You also had your first cold - and you thought it was hilarious the first few times we used the booger squeegie on your nose. 
• You switched from the front carrier to a back carrier - much more comfortable for Mommy and Daddy, and you get the added perk of getting to pull our hair! :)

Things you Like
You LOVE making farting noises.  You love it when Daddy chases or wraps you up like a burrito after bathtime - and you love having splashing wars with Daddy in the tub.  You love eating - anything and everything.  You like it when Mommy comes home from work - you sprint crawl across the house to get to her.  You like going out - grocery shopping or out for meals - you are fascinated by people watching - and you still love being tossed in the air or tickled!

We love you so much, buddy!  And we love watching you grow more and more into the little man that you are.

When fear threatens to rob you of joy...

For as long as I can remember, I've been a "realist."  Never one to flippantly expect the best, I was always considering and aware of the worst case scenario, always the one who asked the "but what if...?" questions.  Always aware that for every good outcome, there were many ways that it could go wrong along the way.  And always waiting for the figurative "other shoe to drop." The dreaded "but..."

Marriage is really good right now, but...
We had one healthy pregnancy, but...
My job is really exciting right now, but...
I'm really excited, but...
I'm healthy right now, but...

When Jon and I got married, we took a pre-marital assessment (Prepare-Enrich - I highly recommend it) as a part of our counseling which, among other things, measured your "rose-colored glasses-ness."  We both scored off the charts... on the bottom end.  And in some ways that was a really good - neither one of us was/is deceived into thinking that marriage is easy, or that it will be all bubbles and jelly beans.  But our counselor at the time - who was very wise - warned us that in the midst of that "realism" that we actually need to have hope that good things will also happen.  In other words, to believe in the possibility of a good, beautiful, happy marriage, just as much as we were preparing for the hard work and refining.

Realism without hope isn't actually realism.

A few years ago, one of my spiritual mentors told me, "realism isn't the same as 'waiting for the other shoe to drop' - that's actually fear and pessimism."  Realism, in contrast, acknowledges also the possibility that the other shoe won't drop.  That a good outcome is just as possible as a bad.  That statistically, there's not a limit to how much good can be expected, or how much bad or hard must occur.  It's not counting beans - where you run out of one, and you only have the other left.  Fear expects and prepares for the worst, always.  Fear is always waiting for the good to end, and the bad to come.  Fear focuses on the what ifs and loses the other side.

Fear robs us of joy, it buries hope and declares it foolish, and it declares the verdict before it ever occurs.  All in the name of being rational.  And, when bad things do happen, it hinders our ability to fully grieve them, because our mentality is, "well, that figures... of course it was going to be that way."  Fear is self-protective, and self-deceptive.  It neither protects nor enables us to see "realistically."

I don't know about you, but I would prefer joy and hope, in balance with wisdom and good preparation, even if it is more risky than fearful security.

Sure, hope is far more vulnerable.  Hope requires that we acknowledge that it hurts when we fall, are disappointed, or bad things happen.  Hope requires acknowledging that we actually do want the good things which we want regardless of whether we acknowledge it or not.  Hope can be disappointed, whereas fear rarely is.  But hope actually allows room for joy.  For life.  And for grieving.

So what do we do, when fear threatens to rob us of joy?  And I need to make it abundantly clear that I'm preaching this to myself here as well - I don't have this figured out yet.

But, I think we start by asking the "what if" question... the other way.  What if, instead of the fear-filled situation...  what if, God actually has something good here instead?  What are the potentially positive, hope-filled outcomes?  Not saying we have to believe them, or know that they'll happen - or that they will happen, for that matter - but I think hope begins to grow when we deliberately create space for it.

And maybe that space is as simple as beginning with realism - the balance of both sets of "what ifs."  Without automatically shooting one down because it's "unrealistic."

And then if we're really audacious and really bold, maybe we look for what we can be joy-full about in the here and now, regardless of what might happen next.  And maybe we choose, deliberately, joy - for as long as it can be ours.   Without damping it with cynicism, or waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It's audacious.
It's so simple.
But it's so hard.

I have no idea how to do this day in and day out.  But I am wholeheartedly persuaded that it is better than living in a fear-filled "realism" and so I'm going to try and keep plugging away at it.  With joy.  :)

- KD

Letters to my son: Being Your Mom

Dear son,

I've been wanting to write this letter for a while, but I just haven't quite had the words.  I still don't, but they say that words start to flow when you start to write, so here I am.  I want to tell you how much I love being your mommy, and how much more full I am than I ever thought I could be.

It's not one story - that would be easy to describe or tell.  It's not even one sweet tender moment, because I'm pretty sure I could find words for that as well.  It's the days, in and out, with your good moments, and your scream-y ones, that make my heart fill and feel like it cannot hold any more, but still it grows and overflows even more each day.

You are a man on the move these days and from the moment that you sit up in your crib to the moment that I lay you down for the night, you never stop.  Over legs, under tables, climbing trash cans and strollers: by the end of the day, you have more bumps than I can count - but still you grin.  You are unfazed by each set-back, and your persevering little personality keeps trying again, and again, and again.  Grinning and pouting and crying and chortling, all the way.  Nothing melts me like your laugh.  Even your preciously adorable pouty lip doesn't come close.

The other night, you had a hard night.  You were startled awake around 10:30, and you screamed and cried and wouldn't go back to sleep in your crib until almost 1:15.  And so we held you, and rocked you, and walked with you, and you fell asleep on our chests, your breathing slowing and relaxing, and your body slumped against ours in total trust, arching and screaming the moment we tried to put you down.  And as frustrated as I was, and as tired as I was, and as much as I wanted you to go.to.bed, I kept thinking, "I get to be his mom.  And we get to be the ones who comfort him.  Who help him feel safe when he's scared."  We get to be the ones who sit with him on these long, dark nights and as well as bear witness to the happy, laughter-filled days.  We get to be the ones...  and baby, even though I was SO glad when you finally let Daddy put you down in your crib, and stayed asleep, and we could crawl into our own bed and fall asleep, lying down, I wouldn't trade the privilege of getting to be the one who gets to be your mom - your safe place, even in those long, dark nights - for anything.

As I write this, you are crawling around on the floor, under daddy's keyboard, under my chair, pulling books off the shelves, and in general leaving total chaos in your wake - but every so often, you come back over to me, pull up on my leg, and just grin, as if to say "still here, mom?"  I'm still here, baby.  And I'm not going anywhere.

I love your fearlessness, even when that causes heart failure as you launch yourself off couches, beds, and chairs.  I love your laughter when daddy tickles you or you find something totally random, funny.  I love your snuggles in those last few minutes before bed, those precious, rare moments when you curl up and snuggle in and are still.  I love how you grin when we brush your teeth, and how you impishly consider whether to obey or not when we tell you no.  I love your wild crazy hair, standing on end and going every which way.  I love hearing your voice, as you sing going up the stairs, or along with me when we're cooking in the kitchen.  And I love how you crawl/run to greet me when I come home from a long day at work.

I wear many hats, baby.  But being Daddy's wife, and your mom are two of the most precious to me. When I am with you both, I am home and fully me.

I love being your mom, and as long as I am alive, I will always be here.  Whether you're screaming and running away, or screaming and running towards;  whether you're smiling and laughing, or crying; whether you are being fiercely independent, or just needing reassurance that we're here; whether you despise us or delight in us; whether you need us, or are fine on your own; whether I understand you or struggle to; whether I'm tired and just need a break, or loving every moment of motherhood, I will be here, with love, hard or easy, as your mom.  Loving you regardless.  Listening.  Staying.  And grateful for the gift of being your mom, always.

Love,

Mommy

blogger identity crisis

So I have a bit of a confession to make...  as a blogger, I'm going through a bit of an identity crisis - or at very least, a re-forming period.  When this blog began, it was a simple place for me to externally process the knowledge that I was called beloved, loved unconditionally, with-or-without my "little bit" of whatever I had to offer.  It was mostly private, and shared with just a few friends - mostly just for my own processing.

Over the last year, though, it has expanded in audience, and content.  And right, wrong or otherwise, I enjoy that.  I love comments, I love feedback, and I love "likes" - one of my love languages is words of affirmation, and so I thrive when that feedback is positive.  It also can be a dangerous place for me, because it can make it difficult at times to share parts of my process, vulnerably - which may or may not get likes and comments - even though that was the original intention of the blog.  I know, intrinsically, the type of post that gets likes.  And the kind that doesn't.  And it's very tempting to write either one or the other - but not really both.

Somewhere in the middle is where I hope to land - writing in light of the audience at hand, but also staying true to the intention of this space, regardless of the feedback or lack therein that I may get.  All that to say, I'm still figuring out how to do that.  And I'm trying to intentionally wrestle through my own need for affirmation - and the unhealthy parts of that as well as the healthy.  As well as consider how having an external audience may also - healthily - require me to share about the happy, light,  moments as well as the heavy, processing, heady, realization ones.  Which, even though it might not be my standard modus operandi to share out loud, is actually really healthy and good for me.

All that to say, I'm still figuring it out.  But, in the spirit of vulnerability, being real in the blogosphere, and comfort in who I am, I thought I'd share that out loud, rather than just keeping it to myself.  Here's the goal:

• I'm going to write some posts that have no point - that are funny, that are random, that are life - and I'm going to write some that are serious, pondering, and deep.  Because both of those are part of who I am. 

• I'm also going to write some that many people will love, because they resonate on a broader spectrum.

• And I will also write some that no one will like, but that are important for me to write to get it out of my head and into a place where I can process it out and be reminded of truth in the midst of chaos.  And that's a good thing too.

• And, easy or hard, with wisdom recognizing that this is the freakin' internet, I will continue to write posts that are vulnerable.  Even when it feels hard.  

And I have to be okay with not fitting neatly into one category of blogger - the sweet, inspirational, or the mommy-blogger, or the ridiculously funny, or the beautifully parsed, or the "gets a hundred likes even when she writes about fill-in-the-blank."  (I have some ridiculously talented friends who write blogs).  And at the same time, I have to be okay with sometimes getting pigeon-holed as a mommy blogger - hey I am one - or a heady-realization-rich blogger - because I have those and I like that about myself - or one who is expected to have beautiful words always - because I do sometimes.  And with that, it's okay to enjoy getting lots of positive feedback, comments and likes - but those cannot define the way that I write, process, or imagine and dream.  Therein, the journey is stunted, and I, not you, confine myself to a far smaller space than I long for.  That's my #beingreal moment for the day.

It's a terrible branding strategy - but hey, I'm not selling myself, for likes, comments, or money.  Because after all,

"I am called beloved. And in that, is a freedom to process and be transparent with everything else above. Because in the security of knowing that I am called Beloved, I also hear the truth that the chaos, the mess, the awkwardness, is not who I am. It does not define me." 

And that is my only brand.  So... stay tuned.  :)  The journey continues.

Letters to my son: Easy Answers

Dear son -

This has been a month of a lot of hard moments for mommy.  Questions of why that don't have answers.  Tears.  Memories.  More questions.

This month, two dear friends that are trying to get pregnant, but haven't been able to, clocked in yet another disappointment and heartbreak.  Yet another month without a longed for, beloved member of their families.  Earlier this week, a friend gave birth to her beautiful daughter, stillborn, at 6 months after receiving a fatal diagnosis earlier this month.  And those losses have hit me really hard this month.  Even as we celebrated with rapt delight countless other friends delight in welcoming home a new baby or discovering/announcing that they are pregnant.

This last month [Sept] is host to suicide prevention week, and with it come the memories of those that mommy has lost to suicide and thankfulness and prayers for those that she feared she would lose.  Those she holds dear, in this life, and the next.  And with it comes both grief for those absent, questions of why, and sadness for the oft invisible hurt, heaviness, and darkness that is felt by so many.

This month, mommy had hope for something new that might be had.  Thought that it might happen.  But it didn't.  And the hope that was, fell, in the silence of that which never was, but was hoped and longed for.

And this month, mommy has prayed with more people who have lost a loved one or are losing a loved one, to death, disease, or divorce, than she has in a very long time.  And it's been hard.  Really hard.  With lots of tears, lots of sitting with, and lots of why questions.

Right now, your hardest why questions are most likely "why is it taking so long for mommy to arrive?" and "why can't I eat this onion skin or climb on this chair?"

In a few short years, I am sure that you will overwhelm us with your questions of "why?" Why do birds fly, mommy?  Why don't airplanes fall?  Why do football players wear helmets?  Why do some people speak a different language than us?  Why does the T move so slow or smell so dirty? Why do you kiss daddy? Why isn't the sky orange?

And while those are tricky questions, I am fairly confident, with the help of google search and wiser friends, we can ascertain an answer to them.  But you will learn, son, that there are many many questions that don't have easy answers.  Whys which we don't know.  Whys which no matter how smart mommy and daddy are, or how excellent their google searching skills, we cannot figure out concisely.  Or at all.

Your mommy thinks a lot (and so does Daddy).  And for years, she has wrestled with those whys.  Wanted simple answers.  Tried to simplify complex things.  And tried to understand why.  And that's not a bad thing.

But in my now slightly older wisdom, I am learning that we do some of those griefs, some of those hard places, some of those questions, a grave disservice, when we attempt to make what is complicated, simple.

Oliver Wendall Holmes once said, "I would not give a fig for the simplicity on this side of complexity, but I would give my life for the simplicity on the other side of complexity."  I love that quote, and it hangs on the wall of our dining room, in a piece of art that I created, when I was wading through a season of my own complexity and story, grief, and history.

There comes [eventually] a simplicity to these why questions - even if it's just an inexplicable peace in the "I don't know"- but it only comes from wading through, sitting in, walking with, crying through - those places of complexity.  Of I don't know.  And it's beautiful - far more beautiful than a cliche simplicity.   When we settle for the easy, feel good answers, we do a disservice to the grief.  To those who grieve.  And to ourselves.  And we cheapen the beauty that rises from the ashes.  

Son, in my grief this month - in my grief for others this month - and in my grief with others this month - I don't have answers.  I don't know.  And I can guarantee you that you will ask questions that I don't know the answer to also.  That you will likewise wrestle with.  Or those around you, that you love deeply and dearly, will wrestle with.

And there is a temptation - out of a good desire, and deep compassion to mitigate pain - to give easy answers.  To hold on to easy answers.  And to resolve the why quickly.

But son, this is my entreaty to you, as well as my promise:  [I will] be willing to say "I don't know."  Without explanation, but with compassion and empathy.  I don't know why, but I love you.  I don't know why, but let's wrestle with it together.  I don't know why, but I want to love you well.  How can I do that?  I don't know, but I'm not going anywhere.

Perhaps there are times when a simplified [but still true] answer will be helpful - when you ask where babies come from, when you're 2 or 3, for example.  But, in as much as I am able, and with room for discernment and wisdom to lead - I promise you, I will not give you trite answers - or make something up, when the reality is that I don't know.  I will [endeavor to] not be afraid to say "I don't know."

Because while it is extremely tempting to give or cling to easy answers, it is not comforting to those who are stuck in the complexity.  It would be easy for me to teach you trite answers - cliche phrases which you can always give.  In one blog post letter, I can give you at least four that can always be [inappropriately] dished out in any circumstance.  But the harder and more compassionate thing is to teach you to sit with.  To model sitting with.  Pressing in.  Digging deep.  And wading through the complexity to find the beautiful simplicity on the other side.

That is what I want to live.  That is what I want to model for you.  And what I want to invite you into as well.

Love,

Mommy

love after marriage

My son is right on the cusp of toddlerhood.  At a ripe old age of 8 months old, he is doing his darndest to learn how to walk - pulling up on everything, free-standing, and falling - a lot.  Also biting.  But that one we are discouraging.

Eight months into this life of his, we are starting to feel a bit more comfortable - not pros by any stretch of the imagination, but less of the "why on earth did they let us take him home?" and the "gahhh what does he need?" guessing game.  At 8 months, there's some semblance of a rhythm - naps, bedtime, eating time - and less of the chaos of the "fourth trimester."  Should you find yourself in the fourth trimester, take courage my friend, it does get easier, even though this stage too has unique challenges.

A few months ago, a friend asked Jon and me, if we would consider walking with her, and her fiancé, in some pre-marital counseling.  My first instinct was to laugh, and then maybe think about crying.  Because at a ripe two years and some odd months into marriage, the idea that we would help in preparing anyone else for marriage was both humorous and terrifying because we're right in the heart of the toddler years of marriage.

As I write this, my son is climbing, back and forth, and back and forth over my legs.  And falling a lot.  This is what the toddler years of marriage look like.  Practicing the same things, over and over and over again.  And falling a lot.  And then getting back up again.  A lot.  Not the chaos and total unknown of the newborn era - nor the fresh flowery excitement of the newlywed era - we're starting to feel a little bit more comfortable, but are not pros by any stretch of the imagination.

But after that initial query, I've been thinking a lot about what love after marriage has looked like - what we learned, how we've grown - and so I share, not because we have it figured it - in fact I'm pretty sure we don't yet - but because we're learning, and growing.

Two years into marriage, we know a lot more about the other than we did when we got married.  What makes him tick.  What frustrates me.  How we load the dishwasher.  Stories about them that we'd never heard before.  And the ones that we could tell from memory because we've heard them so many times.  And secrets, that no one else knows and most likely never will.

We can identify what our regular fights are, because we have them... regularly.  And we're more keenly aware of the ways in which we are different. And we're starting to have "our" family rules, as we move towards the middle of blending "the ways we have always done it" from our families of origin into our own unique family traditions.  We're also learning that good fights are worth having.

We've learned how to make up well, and to always make up, even if we're still learning how to fight well.

We've are learning to talk to each other.  Not just in a conversational sense, but in the real, honest, sometimes vulnerably hard ways of talking to rather than waiting for the other to figure it out.  We've learned that as much as we love each other, mind reading is a farce, and it's better all around if we just tell the other what we're wanting or needing.  Yes, we verbally affirmed this before marriage - and were better than some at communication (thanks, long-distance) - but have still had to grow in it.

We're learning that sex is a beautiful part of marriage - not just for pleasure or fun or satisfaction, or making babies, although it's great for all of those - but as a part of loving the other, making up, grieving together, celebrating together, and growing together.  And while honeymoon sex was great, two years in just gets better and better.  For what it's worth, (IMHO) married people need to talk about sex more, because otherwise all we have as a picture is the cultural picture that you gotta get get get before you get married, and enjoy the "good stuff" and then settle down for a long, boring (only occasional) ride.   And I don't actually think that is, or should be, true.

And we're discovering lots of "our" things and "his" and "her" things - and understanding that there need to be both in a healthy marriage - not a loss of individual identity as we do EVERYTHING together and the same - but also not total autonomy as we neglect the unity.  Jon loves to watch football.  I like to sew.  We both like to read.  We both run (one of us loves it, the other not so much, but we do it together anyhow).  We're both foodies, and we both love to cook, brew, and otherwise putz around the kitchen.  Jon needs quiet time, without conversation.  I need lots of talking time.   And we're constantly doing the juggling act to find a balance of "us," "me" and "you."

And after baby, we're learning that we both have a finite amount of selflessness - and with a needy, mostly helpless wee one depending on us - often times that storehouse is pretty empty. Giving selflessly to the other takes intentionality; before baby yes, but most certainly after baby.  And so we're learning again to love selflessly with intentionality. And in that, we have different ways of receiving love - so part of loving selflessly, is learning to love in the way that the other receives as love.

Then, there's the way that we talk about and talk to one another.  We are supposed to challenge one another - to be catalysts for growth - to help refine the other, yes.  But when you do that all the time, it feels somewhat similar to rubbing sandpaper over your face repeatedly.  It's grating and frustrating and can lead to gaping, bloody wounds.  There is a timeliness to challenging one another - in any relationship - when it's for the sake of the other, rather than just for your sake.  And that's a hard one in marriage, when the others growth IS for your sake also.

Lastly, we're learning not to shame the other, and to affirm one another (a) often, (b) honestly not fluffily (is that a word?), (c) privately, and (d) publicly.

Did I know these things before marriage - absolutely.  Did we practice most of them in dating - yes, to a degree.  But the day-in and day-out of marriage tries, tests, and proves what you actually believe, want and live - rather than just what you can do for a time.  And that's where the growth, the selflessness-stretching, and the refining of marriage happens [or at least has thus far for us, as this is my story, not a summary of all marriages ever].  The years - our two thus far - are what actually prove and refine who you are, not just who you want to be.

So what does our "love after marriage" look like?

It looks like date nights in, on the couch with Trader Joe's two-buck-chuck and steak tips (or leftovers, let's be honest), watching Lost, between trying to get the smoke alarm to stop going off and trips to the kitchen for more brownies.  And "I love you's" and grocery list making...

It looks like trying to interpret what Jon is trying to say, with gestures and mumbles, mouth full of toothpaste and toothbrush, and lots of giggles (or guffaws for J since he "doesn't giggle") , as we get ready for bed.

It looks like staying up late, through tears, and tiredness, to finish a fight - because we're committed to working through it rather than go to sleep angry and unresolved, even though in the moment it's easier and even desirable to just say "whatever" and roll over.

It looks like changing diapers, when it isn't our turn.  Or getting up with S, so that the other can sleep a little longer.  Or cooking dinner AND doing the dishes.  Or balancing the budget, and squeezing a little extra out so we can stop for dairy queen.  Or using your allocated "fun money" to do something together, rather than for something for yourself.

It looks like apologizing, again, for the same thing - and forgiving again - for the same thing.  And reminding the other - again, without demanding - what we need, with grace, when it doesn't come naturally.

It looks good.  Hard.  Challenging.  Beautiful.  Deep.

Lovely.

being real in the blogosphere...

There are many embarrassing or awkward, or personal, things that I could tell you about myself, my family, my house, that really wouldn't phase me all that much.  Let's be real, I love me some awkward and with that comes a heaping serving of embarrassing and sometimes personal.

I could tell you that there is a spatula that we affectionately refer to as "the pooper scooper" in our bathroom.  We do not have a pet and it is not for someone else's pet.  I'll let you parse together the details.  But I'll assure that it's gross and involves diapers.  BUT it resides in clorox, n'er you fear.

Or I could tell you that I haven't really dusted since we moved into our apartment... 2 years ago.

I could even tell you that I got angry today, on my commute, because some lady was walking directly in my commute path while uploading pictures to facebook of the train that she and I were currently missing.  Word to the wise, lady, if you're walking slowly enough to upload pictures to facebook... of the train that we are missing... you should get out of the fast lane.  And if we're on the story of commute, if I can hear and sing all the words to your music, through your earbuds,  kuddos to you because I am actually incapable of singing lyrics and always hum half of the words.  And it's too loud. And if you're 18 and in good health and sitting, and there's a 95 year old pregnant woman with one leg in front of you, no no, by all means you should definitely remain sitting.  Please, don't even think of getting up.

[That last one might be an exaggeration.]  But you get my point.  I could tell you that that made me angry, as long as I make it moderately funny.  I would probably also comment that I realized I should deal with my T-rage, as it's probably more harmful to me than the *$&%^ng uploading, sitting, disc jockeys on my commute.

And I could tell you how sometimes my days are really long... and hard... and all I want when I get done with the day is a big glass of wine (or two) and a nice hot bath. Or even how I'm really struggling with balancing work and mommy-hood, but seeing God's goodness in it, even in the midst of my torn-ness.  And seeing how God is redeeming me, and molding me,  in the midst of that.

And all of those would be true things, minus the 95 year old pregnant woman with one leg.  And maybe a slight exaggeration on the dusting bit.  It might have happened sort of once before company came over.  God is good, we are being redeemed and made new.  And I can be funny sometimes.

But, here's the reality - most of us are still in process, and don't have the neat conclusion to our blog posts on the real life stuff that's happening today not yesterday.  We are still an un-cloroxed, n'er dusted mess of pooper scooper and things that we're still dealing with, not figured out [yet].

God is still good.  And we are still being redeemed.

But I'm struggling with loving my husband well today.  I have been short, snarky, selfish and demanding.  That's not a guilt trip - I'm working on it, and acknowledging it, asking for forgiveness there - but I don't have it figured out yet.  There is no neat packaging on that one.  Real time, today.

I'm struggling with anger at work, when someone doesn't acknowledge my hard work, or me, as a person.  And I struggle with comparing our finances to those of others - our ease of life - and find myself bitter and covetous.  Or just randomly angry.

And I totally judge other moms.  Try really hard not to - and really don't want to and totally apologize for it when it comes out - but I totally do it.

How's that for embarrassing, awkward, and personal?

I love the blogosphere.  I love the freedom to process out-loud, to share life, and learn from others as they process out-loud.  For real.  I'm not dissing it.  And I love the awkward, embarrassing, humorous story - can you have too much snark or sarcasm, I ask you.  [the answer is yes, but that's for later]. Ask anyone who knows me, I love it.  And I LOVE hearing how my friends [and random strangers that I blog-friend, let's be honest] are learning about God's grace.  It's good and encouraging, and builds us up and probably should still be the majority of what we write about.  Because complaining and self-pity, and wallowing, are a fine line away from in-process honesty when things are hard, if we let ourselves sit there too long.

But friends, if we're going to be real - and be in process, for the sake of humor, or encouragement, or blessing, in the blogosphere - we need to actually tell some of the stories that don't have a conclusion yet.  Some of the stories in which we are not the heroine or hero, or don't figure it out [yet].  With hope, but...

The ones still in the trenches.

The ones that invite others to encourage us, bless us, or help us find the humor in it... even when we can't yet see it.

The ones that aren't funny.

The ones that are funny, but that we don't look good in.

The ones that we're actually struggling with... still... presently... and haven't resolved.

I get why we don't.  It's risky, and it's [often times] not met well.  Received with judgement, rather than encouragement.  And if I'm honest, the blogosphere probably isn't the best place for that sharing - a coffee date with a friend, a box of kleenex, and a warm pumpkin spice latte probably is.  So please, let's start there.  Please.   I'm going to.  I need to.  We all need someone that we can be that honest, in process, with - a real person, not a blogobunch.

But then as we blog also, if we're the types of bloggers who write "real"... in how ever much detail we choose to write... as we write our funny, awkward, embarrassing, life-learning, grace-seeing stories... let's also write the other ones.

The ones that end in a "to be continued..." or "in process..." or "waiting" or "I don't know."

Because then, friends, when the light breaks through... when the lesson is learned... the grace seen...

That's true beauty.
True encouragement.
Truly not about us.
Real.