You Are My Happy.

Last night, there was a dance party at my house. There was a full-on, booty-shaking, jump-up-&-downing, arm-waving, bass-thumping rave in my living room, and it was fantastic.

Did you know that I have a three-year old now?

Three years ago, the second-hardest year in my life had just begun. “It was the best of times; it was the [almost] worst of times,” and it was a tremendous, tumultuous torrent of faith, fear, post-partum psychosis, and sleepless nights.

It was everything I wanted, everything I was terrified of, and everything I needed.

It still is.

Parenthood has drawn more out of my husband and I than we ever thought possible. It has pushed us physically, mentally, and spiritually to our brink, and it has made us more thankful for life, for each other, for Jesus, for breathing, than we have ever known. Parenthood makes you speak in superlatives on a minute-by-minute basis. Everything is amazing. Everything is awful. Everything is incredible. Everything is terrible.

Parenthood leaves no room for middle ground.

Parenthood-post-loss leaves no room for sleep.

It leaves no room to allow the mind to relax (for the first year) because you are constantly fighting the “what-ifs” that want to run rampant in your postpartum-crazy life. YOU CAN’T LET THEM. They’ll take over, and you’ll find yourself in mental hysterics that only Wellbutrin and Jesus can fix. You can’t let it in, not even for a second. It gradually gets better, but I know my first 6 months after JD was born were so mentally difficult. You’re afraid to celebrate the moments, because you alone understand how quickly they can be taken away.

It’s a feeling that permeates your soul for years.

Last night was a great example: There we were: David and I, jumping around like 2 insane, sugared-up rhythmless Michelin Men around the living room. Jericho, meanwhile, was getting a first-class lesson in how to shake his rear, which resulted in him looking like a tiny, underwear-clad Derek Zoolander. He couldn’t figure out how to “shake” his rear, so he’d stop, stick out a hip, and rock a Blue Steel pose like nobody’s business. Too bad he’s gonna be short, because he can pose like Karlie Kloss! LOL—I kid. Anyways, we were dancing like fools to “Happy,” and while we were in that moment, I wanted to be deliriously happy…

 But I couldn’t let myself…

Because the last time embraced a moment and allowed myself to be deliriously happy (and blogged about it), the next day I found out I had cancer and could possibly, permanently lose my voice (I didn’t).

It took so much for me, that last time, to have the courage to say “I am deliriously happy.” It took a lot, and then THAT happened. And the time before that, when I held my daughter and thought, “I am deliriously happy,” we lost her…that kind of paradigm shift has consequences. I thought I had healed from that, but I guess not.

So now, when I find myself wanting to say that I am “deliriously happy,” I can’t.

I can’t do it.

Not yet.

I’m not mad at God.  I’m hurt, but I’m not mad…I’m questioning…I’m curious…I trust that He has a plan…I know He loves me…but I’m confused.

And I’m afraid to fall…

More than that, I’m afraid the ground will come out from under me, and there I’ll be, flat on my back like a broken mess, yet again…I’m not ready to be broken again, so soon, and I guess I feel like that goes hand-in-hand with happiness, like I can’t have one without the other?

Last night, I WAS deliriously happy.  There, I said it. But it was so cautious…I told my husband I was afraid to feel it, afraid to accept that yes, this is happening: This is a happy moment, with no pressure, no bad news, no judgment, no fighting, and no bill. THIS IS A HAPPY MOMENT, CASSIDY. LOVE IT.

Why is that so hard for me to embrace?

My son makes me stop and hold him…I grab him up, I feel his arms wrap around my neck, and he squeezes for all he’s worth. I breathe in his hair and kiss his forehead. I celebrate every single hug, because I know some day he won’t think it’s cool to hug Mommy anymore. I get all of the hugs I can get, not just because he is mine, but because every hug reassures my faith that happiness IS ALLOWED. We can BE HAPPY in this life, even though the world tells us it’s impossible. 

He says, “Are you happy, Mommy?” “Yes, baby, I’m happy. You are my happy.” He has no idea of the ledge he has pulled me off of, nor will he ever know, because that is too much pressure for anyone (ask David, Senior Ledge Puller). When the questions outsize the answers, my boys are my reminder that Jesus is the Answer, and He carries us all…

I am happy. I really am. And someday (soon, I’m sure) I will allow myself to throw my head back and laugh, and be as carefree as I used to be—as carefree as my beautiful son is—and I will re-embrace the joy that can only be found in dropping the baggage brought on by fear and disappointment. Someday, carefree will come easily to me.

Until then, I will watch it be a lifestyle for my son, and I will do everything in my power to ensure that he stays in that carefree lifestyle as long as possible…

Even if that means looking like a spastic Michelin Man in my living room.

Piece By Piece: Hope for Forgiveness

Song lyrics are intense...Music has such a tremendous ability to affect us; whether it's the key, the tempo, the lyrics, the dynamics--music can reach us in ways nothing else can. I know that's why God made it. He understands that music accesses parts of our brains and our hearts that we shut down. It unlocks us, and it opens up floodgates.
Blogs/statuses based in song lyrics always strike me as lame. It's just a cheesy thing, to me (I'm not hating on it; it's just not my thing), and I very rarely do it. This time, though, "Piece by Piece," by Kelly Clarkson, has caught my attention, and ultimately, it has unraveled me, and forced me to deal with some issues that I'd rather ignore.
On those rare occasions where song lyrics undo me, I usually find that God has a reason for it.
Every day, I pray the Lord's Prayer. Every. Single. Day. And every day, I stick in one part: Forgive me my sins, Lord, as I forgive those who sin against me.
"As I forgive..."
Every day, when I pray that prayer, the same face comes to mind: My biological father.
Why?
I'm so done with him--I want nothing to do with him; I never want to see him again. I currently don't even know if he's dead or alive, and I'm not sure I want to. I don't even think I'd go to his funeral, and if I did, I'd probably slap his corpse.
That's some rage, right there.
I could handle his abandonment of me, before I had children...
When I had my daughter, he never visited. He didn't come to her funeral, and had the audacity to shed crocodile tears over the phone (I will say that there was an ice storm the day before her funeral, but he never even tried).
I've never had so much as a phone call about my son.
The last time I saw him, he was a shaky mess of a person (I will not call him a "man"). I actually felt intense sympathy for him at the time...I had just found out I was pregnant with my son, but chose not to share that with him.
Prior to having children, I thought I was over it. I thought I'd forgiven him, that I was healed.
I was wrong.
He abandoned me...when he had the chance to make it right, he beat me. 
I look at my son, and I think, How?
What kind of monster walks away from a toddler? Was I like my son? Did I giggle over Sesame Street? Did I yell "HUGS!!!"  and run to tackle his knees? Did I want nothing more than to sit by him, to cuddle on the couch and watch cartoons?
How could he reject that?
How could he reject my sister--a happy, bubbly grade-schooler who NEEDED her daddy? How could he just walk away?
I don't understand, and I will NEVER understand, and every day I look at my son, I think of how I will ferociously hold his hand until my very last breath...The lyrics in this song remind me that I am not my father...I am nothing like him, and that is a huge gift from God and from my mother...

"Piece by piece I fell far from the tree
I will never leave [him] like you left me
And [he] will never have to wonder [his] worth
Because unlike you I'm gonna put [him] first"

My mother worked her ass off, to take care of us, even after she met my stepdad (who, in spite of the mistakes that I think a lot of stepdads-with-no-previous-experience make, has been one of the greatest gifts that God could have given me). She worked full-time, kept me in private school, sent us to church, kept us presentable, and kept the roof on the house. She was (is) a beautiful woman who could have been out living it up in her mid-20's...instead, she did what mamas do: She put us first.
Still does, really...
And she loves that grandbaby....She sees the rewards of staying, of caring, every time he gives her that beatific smile and says "Meee!!!!!"
And so does my stepdad--the Man Who Stayed. He is the only grandfather (on my side) that my son will ever need to know. He IS "PawPaw," and I am incredibly thankful for him. 

Marriage isn't easy. David and I have had a few rough patches, and even though we're 10 years into this thing, we're still finding our way. We get angry, we duke it out, we get through it/over it, and we move on. Not too long ago, I looked at myself and said that I'd had enough....that I was finished. I said I couldn't do this anymore...
It wasn't a proud moment.
Suddenly, I looked at my son and realized that he is the same age that I was, when my parents divorced....I picked him up, and the tears ran.  I cried out to God that I would not see the cycle repeated. I took a stand for my marriage, for my family, and for my household. I love the man I married...I think I've loved him since I was born....that God meant us to be together from the minute we took our first breaths. Does that mean this is a cakewalk? NO. But nothing is valuable unless you've worked for it, claimed it, prayed over it, cried over it, and sealed it in Jesus. My marriage is worth everything to me...and his fatherhood over our son is worth even more than that.
The next lyrics in the song are what  made me cry the most, because Kelly Clarkson wrote them about her husband, and how he's not the kind of person her father was:

"And you know he'll never walk away
He'll never break [his] heart
He'll take care of things
He'll love [him]
And piece by piece he'll restore my faith
That a man can be kind and a father should be great"

David is nothing like my bio-dad.  He is kind...he is faithful...he loves his son, and he loves me. He'd never raise a hand to me...he doesn't berate me, or hurt my heart...Sure, he's messy, but he's mine, and I will keep him forever. I can't imagine my life without him...and seeing him with our babies has made me love him even more.
He's everything I ever wanted, in a father for my children. He is a great father.
And in watching him, perhaps I can move past my anger and rage with my own father...

Someday, when I pray for God to "forgive me my sins, as I forgive those who have sinned against me," I'd like to feel that peace that comes when you've truly, honestly let it all go, and forgiven someone for the deep hurt/anger/resentment. I think when that finally happens, a restoration will take place that will be a game-changer in my relationship with the Lord. My hope is that this is one of those things, that piece-by-piece, God makes real in my soul...that the more I repeat it, the more it will come to pass. Resentment is ugly, and I don't want to carry it around.  I don't hate my bio-dad, but I sure as heck would like to know why he did what he did, and why he is who he is. Everyone goes through hard times, but everyone doesn't let their hard times turn them into a narcissistic alcoholic that abandons their family. I don't understand why he's done what he's done, and I wish I didn't care so much. I wish I could turn it off, and pretend he's dead, a non-issue...but I guess that's just a way for me to abandon him, and to turn the tables on my terms.

Piece by piece, Lord...Restore my faith that a man can be saved...that forgiveness is attainable, and necessary...

Tales from the Grocery Store...

There are few things that irritate me like grocery shopping irritates me. Maybe it’s the fact that I usually do it on my own, or the fact that it never fails: there’s someone with a cart that can’t figure out to stay toward the side of the aisle (“MOOOVE”—Ludicrous). Grocery trips with my mom were always an epic adventure of carefully-crafted chaos. One child would take a group of coupons to one part of the store; the other child would take another group. Dad would wreak havoc by throwing things whenever possible; Mom would go into full-military-assault mode, and we would, in short, take over the entire store.

I’m not kidding—you could hear us from one end of Schnucks to the other.  I’m really, REALLY good at “Mom?  Mom???? MOOOOOOOMMMMM?!?!?!” I think that's probably how I developed excellent vocal projection...I guess I should send Schnucks a letter of thanks...

Mom is EXCELLENT at “WHAAAAT?!?!?  I SWEAR, I CAN’T TAKE YOU KIDS ANYWHERE-WAIT! WHERE IS YOUR FATHER?!?!?!  JEFFREYJEFFREYJEFFREY!!!!  $%*($%*(*! 

If reality shows would have been a thing during my childhood, we would have made a fantastic one. It would be some caustic combination of Real World/HoneyBooBoo/Bridezilla+Momzilla/ThriftShopDivas/Italian-By-Proxy/BradyBunch AWESOMENESS. We would have rocked your airwaves. Grocery shopping, school programs, after-church dinners—My family is an entertaining bunch, to say the least. But, back on topic: The Grocery Store.

Rarely do I venture to the grocery store during the week. My workdays are long enough that by the time I’ve picked JD up from the sitters, I’m finished. But, last night, we were out of almond milk…and Lord help you if that poor baby doesn’t get his warm almond milk at bedtime (Yuppie baby!)! And, we were out of fruit, vegetables, etc., so off to Shop-And-Save I went.  It’s a necessary evil; I didn’t even go into it with a bad attitude. It was the usual, “Let’s DO this,” and get the heck home as quickly as possible. I grabbed JD, loaded everything into the cart—oh, wait, the cart safety straps are broken!—transitioned to a new cart—and off we went.

Some parents don’t like to run errands with their little ones. I understand, but that’s not how I roll. JD is my little shopping buddy. He likes to stroll through the mall (it’s air-conditioned, so we go there a lot to play). He loves all of the bright colors in the stores, and as he’s gotten older, he’s recognizing things. He’s just now starting to try to touch things, and I’m learning that I have to say “no” to certain things. I’m avoiding toy aisles…not for HIM, but for ME, because I am a SUCKER for buying toys.

Yesterday, I was SO tired…but we had to go to the grocery store, and honestly, I’m glad we did. He’s just so cute, and so funny; he eyeballs people, and he waves. So far, no one can resist saying “Hi” back to him (which is good for them). We went through the produce section, and he got really excited when I showed him the bananas. “NA-na!  NA-na!” was yelled as we went through several different aisles, regardless of what he was looking at (he started it back up again as we were checking out). We practiced our words (PoTAto!  Rnge!—that’s “orange” to you), and he waved like he was the Grand Marshall.

Periodically, I would lean in and kiss his head (it’s hard to resist that giant melon); he started reaching up and “honk”ing my nose. He’s learned his parts of the face, and since I have a prominent proboscis, it’s pretty easy for him to grab. I’d “honk” his wee nose in return, and his giggle would ring through the store.

I’m not afraid to look like an idiot for my son. We’d sing back and forth; there was some jumping on the cart, and general bee-bopping around. We made it fun, and I caught a few people laughing as we walked by.

I wasn’t feeling particularly well yesterday; I’m still not. But as I went to bed last night, I thought about our little trip to the grocery store, and about how much fun it was. Sure, having a toddler with you can make life more complicated.

It definitely makes it more memorable.

The Timehop app on my tablet reminds me every day of what I was doing 1, 2, 3, 4 years ago; those memories from 3-4 years ago are precious, but they’re nothing like the memories our family has created since JD came into the picture. It’s not been an easy road, but it’s been the best road we’ve ever traveled.

Life with our little guy is the most amazing of adventures…even the mundane has become magnificent. Every day is a photo op that’s burned onto my brain. The things we do in the evening become memories that sustain me through my day; every work day is spent waiting anxiously to get home to cuddle that baby, to pinch his cheeks, and to smell that sweet, messy toddler hair. He’s dramatic, hilarious, curious, excited…Every day with him is so new, and so much fun. I see so much of myself, and so much of David; it’s such a crazy ride!

This blog isn’t particularly insightful…it’s just my amazement in how things have changed. Parenthood makes life…Well, I guess it just Makes Life.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

The Look of Doom

Bill Cosby spoke about a situation in his comedy routine, in which his wife spotted him feeding their children chocolate cake for breakfast (“It has eggs! Flour! The basic food groups!”). Upon noting his faux PAs (get it?), he said her skull immediately split open and fire shot out of her eyeballs in anger/rage. 

Bill Cosby Chocolate Cake 

(And I have to say, re-listening to this monologue has me in stitches. I'm rolling!!!!!!!)

I’ve been on the receiving end of that skull-splitting-eyeball-fire-shooting glare before, from my mother. I’ve learned from the best, what it means to skewer someone with a glance, and I’m quite good at it when I need to emit a lot of emotion in a place where I’m not allowed to emulate the Shrieking Eels. Most recently, I utilized “the look” in our church basement, when my husband, being given the task of walking our 17 month-old son out to the car, glanced away from said child for a nanosecond.

I heard gasps, and BOOM! My son pulled a chair down on his head. I whipped my head around like a viper and shot my husband The Look of DOOM. I think an otherworldly force clamped down on my mouth, because by that point of my day, I’d been pushed just a teeny bit too far….Fortunately, I did NOT verbalize my exact emotion at his slight-but-significant oversight at that time; however, he has heard about it for two days now, as I am increasingly concerned at what appears to be a general lack of observation that plagues the male community at large. And for what it’s worth, I think my entire church saw me give The Look of DOOM, and probably read my mind, so I’m pretty sure I didn’t HAVE to say a word to get my point across. His fate was sealed.

I have come to realize that I will never be Mrs. Brady, that perfect suburban wife who has patented “Whatever you say, honey!” as a catchphrase. I will never be Ms. Edna, the beloved pastor’s wife who I viewed as an “extra” grandparent until she passed away at 94-ish. She emulated meekness, and in doing so, was a pillar of strength for my family. There are my peers that appear to have it all together in a SAHM-cocoon of championing their male counterparts as breadwinners, while they stay home and blissfully raise their young (this is how it seems in my head—believe me, I’ve spoken with many of them, and I know it isn’t the case in reality….it’s just how I imagine it HAS to be. I’m delusional—I get that). I feel like I will never successfully be that Submissive Wife.

I will ALWAYS have an opinion. I will ALWAYS be passionate, take initiative, and bulldog a situation when I feel like things are moving too slow. I will always tell my husband exactly how I feel, to a point; the question is how respectful in that expression will I be?  I do not feel like I fit into the church “mold” of a wife at all…partially because I’m a working mother, and that puts me in the minority of women around me who gave birth at the same time I did. I bring in 50% of the income (actually, 70% for the last few years, which is terrifically frustrating…thanks, economy), and I occasionally have to remind myself that doesn’t make me superior in any way, shape, or form. Part of me wonders if I ever became a SAHM, would I somehow magically be meeker? Would we somehow evolve into The Brady Bunch ideal? Is that what it would take, to carve off some of the edginess? Am I not supposed to be this way—at 36, haven’t I figured that out yet?

I was only slightly embarrassed at giving my husband The Look of DOOM in public, but then I just embraced it. Call me rebellious. Call me disobedient, or unsubmissive—do it. Walk in my shoes, and check yourself, because let me tell you—there are days when the limit has been reached (and lately, those days seem to all land on Sunday). Did it embarrass my husband, to get That Look in public? Probably, and that’s not good (coming from me). A little self-control on my part would have been good…but it WAS only a Look. I’m thankful that my eyes spoke before my mouth could.  I’ve been trying to think if I’ve ever witnessed someone give their spouse The Look of DOOM in public or at church, and outside of my mother, I don’t think so, which makes me wonder what kind of Kool-Aid y’all are drinking…More than likely, I’m just oblivious to other’s DOOM-face, because it HAS to have happened. My friends can’t be that perfect.

Sigh.

I have a long way to go.  Parenthood has pushed me further, drained me deeper, and dropped me to my knees like nothing else in life. And I wouldn’t have it any other way, in the course of learning to be the best wife and mother possible…It’s an adventure, a journey, and a quest; come high or low, it’s the best of learning opportunities, and I think David and I are embracing it all…even The Looks of Doom…

The Inevitable...

I suppose it was inevitable...
I have a pretty wicked shopping addiction. Fortunately for my husband, it's the worst when I'm at thrift shops, yard sales, or resale shops. I'm also pretty practical about reusing and up-cycling (everything can be reused or sold). I haven't always been this way--okay, I've always had a serious shopping problem; it's just that until the leaner years (thanks, Mr. President), I wasn't as into the thrifts shops. I also put everything on plastic, which I'm in the process of paying off...again...
Anyways, I love to shop, but I love to sell...and I also love to give when I can. With both Hannah and Jericho, I was blessed with a considerable amount of new and used clothing. The clothing I was given has been passed along to several other new mothers, or has been upcycled at a favorite shop of mine, and traded for more secondhand clothes for my son.
Of course, Hannah didn't get to wear much; we had a huge amount of clothing that I had washed and sorted (so it couldn't be returned); I can't begin to remember all of the people we gave it to, but they all knew it was given with love, and with a broken heart. I'm glad that their little girls got to wear the ruffles and bows...and truthfully, I'm glad I never ran into anyone wearing one of Hannah's dresses. I think it would have shattered me.
With Jericho's clothes, it's been delightful to see where they've gone. One friend of mine brought her son home from the hospital in a particularly cute outfit of Jericho's. It was so cute to see our babies in the same monkey-suit! And since her baby was like, twice the size of mine, he looked even funnier in it.
As many things of Hannah's that we could reuse, we did. We had the nursery bedding packed away; she never used it, and it was a gender-neutral jungle design that Jericho loves. There were yellow onesies, white onesies, Blues outfits, some Cardinals gear--we kept what we could, within reason. I didn't get rid of the very last of her clothes until I found out Bug was a boy. We kept books, CDs, certain toys...we had hope that we'd have another baby, and I'm thankful we kept what we did.
So, it was inevitable that one day, I'd run into something of hers that I'd forgotten was hers, and that it would sucker-punch me in the gut.
And it did, 3 days ago.
Books are friends, right? And I firmly believe one should never gift a book without an inscription.
I grabbed a book for Jericho's nightly Bible time and story time, and there it was, from some dear friends and prayer warriors of ours..."For Hannah: Love, The Renauds, 2006"
I stopped breathing for a minute; tears welled up, and I couldn't help but cry...
But there was my boy,
Looking at me...
Big blue/brown eyes staring up at me quizzically...
Tiny hands touched my knees...patted my legs...
He is my now.
Even though I was sitting in what was her room, in the only piece of furniture that we kept--the rocking chair--even though the words on that page had me split-second thinking of what we missed out on---
He is my now.
I looked at him and dried my tears. I kissed his head, and said, "It's all right, Bug. This was your sisters. And now I'm going to read you the stories I didn't get to read her...but it's okay, because she's living them as we speak."
I know he doesn't understand, and I have no idea how David and I are going to approach the subject when he asks (I'm sure he will; her pictures are on the wall, and it's only a matter of time). What I do know, is that all I ever want him to know is how much we loved her, and how much we loved him; how much her tiny life changed ours forever, and how much we learned...and how faithful God is at keeping His promises, and in never wavering in His heart's desires for our lives.
The occasional sucker-punch never hurt anyone, right? Sometimes it's what it takes to remind us how far we've come...and how much the blessing right under our noses really means to us...
I love that boy.

Day 1: Accepting the Challenge

The 30 Day Challenge…

Nah, it’s not a diet (like I’d go public about if it was! Sure, let me just post that, and then you can all watch me FAIL MISERABLY!!).   It’s a kinda-cheesy little blog challenge that a friend of mine posted. I’ve discovered that I have all of these ideas in my head, and I keep forgetting to just sit down and write it out. My hope is that a little challenge like this will help me get my head back in the game. After all—isn’t writing what I REALLY want to do? (Yeah…it is….along with speaking/singing/teaching/painting…and I wanna be an astronaut and a farmer and a President and a…….Oh, wait, you mean I AM a grown-up?!?!? Bummer).

So, this little challenge will hopefully get me in the right mindset of the bigger blog challenges that come with promoting increased readership. That’s what I’d love to see happen—more readers, and maybe a mini-career out of this writing stuff that I’ve loved for so long. It’s a small start, but here we go….here’s to sticking to it!

Day 1:  Your current relationship; if single, discuss how single life is

Seriously? That’s the first question?!? Sigh. Not very original…but I did say it was cheesy!

I’m married. I’m married to a man whose name means “Beloved,” and it’s engraved on his wedding band. He is my beloved, and I am his, and we are a combination of happy circumstances that were ordained by God. I’m married to a man who chases God, who constantly reads, researches, studies, and seeks to understand the very heart of the Lord. I’m married to a man who has pushed me to my ultimate limits, who has broken my heart into a thousand pieces, who has held me together and kept me off of ledges, and who has the strongest shoulders I have ever seen…I am married to a man who likes me a little bit crazy, but who can handle me when I’m off of the deep end. I am married to a man who has an insane love of furniture and home décor…who has a palette that rivals Gordon Ramsay, and who missed his calling to be an Executive Chef of Southern Home Cooking.

I am married to a man who has shown me what I already knew: He is an incredible father. There’s nothing more attractive than a man who a.) loves God and b.) loves his child. David and his mini-me are my favorite guys on this planet . The Journey to JD (our son) was a long, arduous, insane path, and David stayed on it with me. I don’t understand his thought processes any more than he understands mine, but I do know this: He has stayed.  He has stayed, and he will stay (God-willing), and he will raise our son to be a faithful, kind, loving man, just like he is.

I am married to a man who is far from perfect. I find socks in the recliner, T-shirts on the floor, and toothpaste in the sink; he is known for volcano-like eruptions at stoplights.  He forgets to tell me I’m pretty, he expects praise for the mundane (yes, honey, you’re great—you did the dishes. Which I have done, in anonymity, for days. Would you like a parade? You would? Okay..but you’re cleaning up the confetti.), and he drinks the last of the coffee creamer without telling me. He also steals Nutella, which is a cardinal sin.

I am a wife who flies off of the handle. I am emotional, possibly slightly bipolar, and I have struggled with depression for years. I can be a complete know-it-all; I am messy, boorish, obstinate, and disobedient. I fight with what it truly means to be submissive. I am high-maintenance, and my health issues have caused us no end of financial and marital stress. I can be very unstable, predictable in my unpredictability, and I constantly struggle with filtering what comes out of my mouth. I struggle with my faith, with reading the Bible over reading a good book, and I do not use my talents for the things that I’m sure God would like for me to use them on. 

I am a mother, and I’ve been one for 7 years. I am a mother, and I’ve been one for 6 months. I am confused as to various parts of my identity as a woman, as a Christian, as a church member. I feel useless but overused; ignored, but too loud. I am fiercely protective, and if you harm my child or flirt with my husband, I will end you. That’s a promise.

I can be a cutthroat B if you cross me, and I find myself constantly fighting against that tendency. I lose more than I’d like, at least, mentally. I’m incredibly thankful for grace. I am faithful…I am expressive…I am an individual who is not often understood, but David gets me (most of the time). If he were writing this blog, I’m not sure how he’d describe me (Spender? Undisciplined? Spoiled? Drama Queen? Micromanaging psycho?), but I hope he’d remember that I’m still that blonde in high heels that agreed to go on that second date…

Without my husband, I am still me…but I am not a happy me. I am not a fulfilled me. I miss my other half, when he’s not around; I feel exposed and vulnerable. As time goes on, I feel more and more naked when he’s not around, and I don’t like it. He’s become my covering, which is as it should be. We may forget to say certain niceties to each other, but at the end of the day, I think we both find the bed feels warmer with both of us in it. Our little family felt complete before, during, after, before, and during children, and dog, and everything else…but as time goes by, it feels more complete than ever.

When we got married, we looked at the broken homes that we came from, and we made a promise to each other: We would not go down that path. The “D” word is not spoken in our house. We recently had a major disagreement that was loaded with hurt and pain—we’ve been through a lot lately. The question of single parenthood came up, and was immediately shot down—the thought is worse than a horror film. We do not stop. We do not back down. We stay together, through hell, high water, hurt, and happiness. We are welded together in steel, and we ain’t goin’ nowhere, ya’ here? We made a vow before God, and we meant it.

I mean it, every single day.

I love that man. I’d lay down my life for that man. He makes me crazy (and that's MUTUAL!), but he makes me happy. Where he goes, I go; where he stays, I stay. His God is my God, and his people are my people, and that’s all there is to it.

We are a combination of our best and of our worst, and of our everything in-between. I can’t say enough about how much I love being married, or about how many times I’ve wondered if we both have lost our minds. I can’t describe to you, the peace I feel when he takes my hand (even if it’s just to keep me from wandering into traffic). I’ve blogged about marriage before, and maybe in my head, I have a crazy, romantic notion of it that might be different from how it is when I walk in the door after a long day…But if that’s true, then it’s a delusion I’ve held for almost 9 years, and I’ll keep it.

I married a lover of God.

I married a lover of me.

Through fire and fury, we’re bonded together in grace, laughter, pain, and hope…

And we belong to Jesus first,

Each other second,

To our children, third….

And to the dog, of course….